


All Hope of Repair

by Phlyarologist



Category: Final Fantasy VI
Genre: Angst and Humor, Bittersweet, M/M, Pre-Canon, mentions of Locke/Rachel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-13 08:16:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20171062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phlyarologist/pseuds/Phlyarologist
Summary: Still reeling from Rachel's death, Locke throws himself into fighting the Empire, letting the Returners give him purpose.And they tell him to cozy up tothisfucking guy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks are due to [Moriri](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Moriri) for the beta read, which in this case included  
a) enduring my yelling about this story for [checks watch] five months, and  
b) having to read a bunch of dick jokes that didn't even make it into the final product.
> 
> The sacrifice was a noble one and I am much in her debt.

"Wait," said Locke. "You?"

"Me," said the smiling blond personage behind the desk. "I hope you aren't disappointed."

"Disappointed" wasn't the word, no. But maybe surprised? Annoyed? Feeling like someone somewhere was yanking his chain? There weren't supposed to be any more intermediaries. He'd been vetted thoroughly enough already. This meeting was supposed to be the real deal. To have - of all people! - this gleaming golden idiot thrown up as a final obstacle was an insult. He couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't set negotiations back months, so for once, remembering Banon's warnings, he said nothing.

But the fact was, he had seen this particular dumbass in a bar in Narshe not two months ago, wearing an off-kilter turban (probably to hide all that hair, Locke now realized) and an absolutely shameful false mustache. He couldn't have been more obvious if he'd worn a sandwich board saying MORON FROM OUT OF TOWN, PICKPOCKET WITH EXTREME PREJUDICE. Early in the evening the mustache had in fact come off, sticking to the lip of the man's tankard, and he'd just carried on as if nothing had happened. Locke had filed him away under "very drunk, very stupid, and/or has a big set of brass ones." He'd been on Returner business that night, and so hadn't been able to shake the guy down himself, but toward the end of the night he had seen him amble vaguely off toward the inn currently housing a delegation from Figaro.

So, on second thought, no, it wasn't entirely surprising to see that face here, beaming at him with the same sublime confidence. The issue was that he was here to see the king, not some dimwitted civil servant. Guy probably got this job just by marrying someone's cousin.

By now Locke had been quiet for too long, and he was doing a crap job at hiding his irritation. The man behind the desk said, "Mr. Cole, wasn't it? From Narshe? The climate here isn't too much of an adjustment, I hope. If you look at the meteorological charts, Narshe gets hardly more precipitation than we do - it just happens to be snow. On the other hand, you do have those steam vents -"

"Yeah," said Locke, "I'm Cole, and I can't deliver this message to anyone but His Majesty, so -"

"That's convenient," said the man behind the desk, waving to an empty chair. "Have a seat, will you?"

"Do I just wait for him here, or…?"

The man grinned. "You can wait as long as you like."

"C'mon, what's the holdup? He should be expecting me."

"Oh, he is, don't worry. Can I offer you some refreshments, or would you rather stand around and fidget?"

"I'm not fidgeting."

"Hm. I'm sure you're right. Word to the wise, though." The man interlaced his fingers and eyed Locke sternly. "I'd make doubly sure you don't do that in His Majesty's presence. Even given the nature of this meeting, there's still every need to stand on ceremony. He's an absolute dragon about that sort of thing."

Well, Locke thought, rich people were the same everywhere. "Right. Anything else I should know?"

The man looked pained. "Well, since you ask… Your bandana's the wrong color. He won't like that. I'm surprised nobody told you. The dress code rotates by the day of the week."

Locke thought, Banon, what the hell did you throw me into? I already hate this guy and we haven't even met.

"Anyway," said the man, "I'm dying for a coffee, so let's have something sent up while you wait."

"Can't I wait alone?" said Locke. "It's a private conference."

"Please, Mr. Cole. You may rely on my absolute discretion." He opened a drawer in the desk and flipped some kind of switch, and somewhere out in the hall behind them a bell rang.

"Can I? Does the king know how badly you embarrassed him on his last trip to Narshe?"

The man shut the desk drawer and looked up sharply at Locke. "Pardon me?"

"You tried to tip a waitress 150% because she had 'beautiful eyes.' I know that waitress. Her eyes are _brown._ And how was she supposed to carry home that much cash after everyone saw you give it to her?"

"First, I have no idea what you're talking about. Second, without knowing a thing about the lady in question, I strenuously object to your implication that brown eyes can't be as fetching as any other color. Third —"

There was a knock at the door, and Locke stepped aside to admit a maidservant.

"Ah, yes, there we are," said the man at the desk. "Coffee and snacks for me and my guest, if you would?"

"Of course, Your Majesty," said the servant, and curtseyed and retreated down the hall.

Locke froze. "You're kidding."

"Never," said the man at the desk. "Not once."

"You can't be the king."

"Oh. Except for that. It isn't even a good joke, but sad to say, no one you see today will break character. I've gotten the whole staff in on it. They're all under instructions to behave exactly as if I were the King of Figaro." He shrugged. "So sorry. But while you're here, I really insist you try the coffee. Though I say so myself, I think we've fully optimized —"

Locke, eyes narrowed, spoke the first half of the passphrase Banon had given him.

King Edgar Figaro spoke the second.

"Okay," Locke said, "fuck you." The king laughed. "When were you gonna set me straight?"

"I don't know, when were you gonna ask?" Still laughing, he held out a hand across the desk. "They didn't warn me you were such a stubborn piece of work. But it's nice to finally meet. Please, just call me Edgar. If we tried to be formal now, I'd never keep a straight face."

Locke, dubiously, shook his hand. It was stronger than he'd expected.

Then he said, "Wait. Explain Narshe."

"Well, like I said, in terms of weather patterns it's technically also a desert —"

"Not that."

"I can't help it if you've confused me with someone else."

"I know it was you."

"Well, whoever this man was, he seems to have left an impression on you. He must have been quite the looker. Certainly I've been to Narshe, but you must understand, hanging around in dive bars is well outside the scope of an official visit. I repeat: wasn't me. Don't know a thing about it."

Locke splayed his hands over the desk. "Okay, yeah, you're right, there's been a mistake here."

"I'm glad we agree."

"Because I was sent here to talk to… how did he put it?" He held up a finger for effect. "'An intelligent and careful man, and not to be taken lightly.'"

"Such lofty praise. I'm blushing," said Edgar, who wasn't. He was still smiling, but his air of thick-headed cheer had been replaced by undiluted smugness. It was not less annoying, but it was annoying from a different angle.

Annoying enough that Locke had been flustered and off-balance since he'd entered the office. But the thing was, while that could have been planned, it still could have risen from the king's native stupidity.

Is this a power move, Locke wondered, or is he just a dipshit?

And he kept wondering for a long damn time.

* * *

  
"Oh, Locke, there you are. Perfect timing. The Empire's trying to scare me with their superior tech again."

Locke pulled the hidden door back into place and waited for the click. "Is it working?"

"Hm. Well, just between us, I'll admit I'm concerned. Take a look." He handed over a thrice-folded sheet of paper, half of Gestahl's seal still visible in the broken wax.

Locke flipped it open and scanned through the ornate script of… some kind of invitation. "They love their dinner parties, huh?"

"It gets worse. Note the location." Edgar leaned over and tapped the last line. "I understand this to be a prototype Magitek gunboat."

"Oh, shit."

"Precisely. Now, we have a little over a month to prepare, and I should be able to smuggle two or three Returner agents on board in my entourage. I want you to talk to Banon and Arvis, see who they recommend. Maybe one of the mine engineers? Someone who can spot obvious failure points in a complex system. I can't expect to get more than a cursory look myself."

"Wait, you're going?"

"Of course."

"But it's a boat. In the _ocean._ If they're planning to kidnap you — or even kill you —"

"I don't think they are, for the moment." Edgar took the invitation back and smiled a flinty smile. "But if they try, I promise I'll make it difficult." He patted Locke's shoulder. "No need to worry. Just remember: I'm the king and I do what I want."

"Is that supposed to be reassuring?"

"No, it's supposed to shut you up. Anyway, that's my news — how about yours? Have you eaten? I've never been sure how the rules of hospitality apply to secret revolutionary spies. In the strictest sense of the word, you're not a guest, but —"

"Okay, what's the secret phrase that shuts _you_ up?"

"The question has driven sharper minds than yours into despair."

Although it was nearly midnight, Edgar had a cold dinner sent up, and Locke made his report in between wolfing down a succession of flatbreads. Edgar listened in silence, sometimes jotting down a quick note, sometimes discreetly nudging more food in Locke's direction. Locke couldn't decide whether to find the latter patronizing or to just be grateful.

When the recital was done, Edgar looked over his notes one more time, nodded to himself, burned them in the fireplace, and asked a few incisive questions Locke did his best to answer. It was 2AM.

"Right," said Locke, stifling a yawn as he got up, "now if you can lend me a chocobo —"

"We're out."

"What?"

"I regret to inform you we're completely out of chocobos." At that moment there must have been some minor disturbance in the stables; an aggrieved warking could be heard faintly through the window. Locke jerked his thumb toward the sound. "That's something else," said Edgar.

"Uh-huh," Locke said flatly. "And when do you expect to have birds again?"

"For you? Eight, maybe ten hours."

"What's to stop me stealing one before then?"

"I think even you would find that difficult, because we don't have any." More indignant chocobo noises in the distance, and the yet more indignant yells of a cat fleeing the scene of a crime. "On the other hand, we do have guest accommodations in a corridor that won't be disturbed until noon, so —"

"I thought I wasn't a guest."

"These are bold times in improvisational etiquette."

"Just wondering, do you ever get tired of your own BS?"

"Nope!"

Locke sighed. A soft bed was tempting, as was a break in a week of constant travel. On the other hand: letting Edgar have anything resembling a win.

"Get me back another time, if it's so important to you. Stow away on the boat and stab an Imperial Guard. Whatever you see fit."

"Yeah, I definitely won't be doing that."

"Oh, come on. Intrigue. Stealth. Fighting at close quarters. That sounds like exactly your element." Locke shrugged, feigning indifference. "Unless," Edgar mused, "the _sea_ isn't your element."

"Or maybe I don't care if you bite it."

"Nonsense. Everyone cares if I die, whether they're for or against. It's in the job description. No, no, I have this figured out. You're a bad sailor, aren't you?" Something else occurred to him. "And the Returners send you all over the world like that?"

"Yeah," Locke said grimly. Not much use denying it now.

"Oh. That's awful." Edgar laughed. "That's just awful. Poor you."

"It's not something I advertise."

"No, you wouldn't. Well, my old nursemaid has an herbal preparation she swears by for any kind of travel sickness — I'll make sure you leave with some."

"Does it work?"

"I wouldn't know — I've never needed to put it to the test myself. But I suppose we can't all have my iron constitution." He snickered. "I'm sorry, but your life must be a _misery._"

"You're a dick. I'm gonna steal every chocobo you don't have."

But the medicine did help, to a point, so there was that.

* * *

  
A week before Edgar was scheduled to leave for Albrook (and from there, for what Locke thought of as "the big floating death party"), Locke returned to Figaro. After reviewing the Returners' final plans, the two went onto the ramparts and opened a bottle of wine as a red sun sank beneath the dunes.

"I still have no plans of being assassinated," Edgar said at length, "but I don't think it hurts to be prepared."

He spoke lightly, as always. Locke stopped and lowered his glass and gave Edgar a searching look — but there was nothing to see. "Need me to do something?" he said, aiming at the same casual tone, and by his own estimation hitting within a degree or so.

"I've discussed it with my council. The throne will pass to a cousin of mine —"

"Not your brother?"

Edgar sighed. "I may have you beat for charm, looks, and intelligence, but there's the one arena where you have the advantage. All my baggage is a matter of public record."

"You? Baggage? You barely even have feelings."

Edgar inclined his head in acknowledgment, smiling wryly. "One does one's best." Then he swirled the wine around in his glass and took a long swallow. "So: my cousin. He's only twelve at the moment, so his mother will rule as regent for some years. I don't know entirely where her sympathies lie. But let's be optimistic. If I'm the victim of foul play, let's assume it's blatant enough to sway her to your side." He handed Locke an envelope. "All this being the case, here's a letter of introduction. Only if you feel it's safe to approach her, of course. The situation may be... volatile."

The paper was oddly warm in Locke's hands. "Wait, did you just have this down your shirt?"

"I'm reliably informed that pockets would ruin the lines of the garment."

"And why does it smell like penetrating oil?"

"You're imagining things."

This didn't square. Unless… He snorted. "You know it's not that kind of penetration, right?"

"Locke, please. We're talking about my dying wish here."

"Yeah? I don't see you dying." He studied the envelope.

The world started to go gray around the edges. The cooling air curdled in his lungs.

"Aw," said Edgar, "will you miss me that much?"

The note was addressed in small, plain letters to _My cousins in_ —

"Kohlingen," said Locke. "She's in Kohlingen? That's — fine. Yeah. Got it."

Edgar stepped closer, frowning. "Will that be a problem?"

"It's fine." Locke stared down at the stones under his feet a moment, took a breath, and then looked up and made himself remember what a sarcastic smile felt like on his face. "The people around there aren't my biggest fans, but I'll manage."

"Oh, boy. I'm not sending you into some kind of mob justice situation, am I? What did you steal from these people?" Edgar leaned in conspiratorially. "Was it worth it?"

It was an easy out, and for a moment Locke thought he would take it. But then he thought, No. Too much is riding on this. The Returners needed Figaro, and if anything happened to Edgar, the future of that alliance was uncertain. Everyone should know who they were dealing with before they made any big plans.

"It's not that," he said, finally. It made him feel lightheaded again, and slightly unreal. He thought, Am I doing this? He tucked the envelope into his pocket, freeing one hand to brace against the parapet. He swigged down half the contents of his glass and tasted nothing, and tried to concentrate on the feeling of sandstone under his fingers. "I — lost someone there. I made her a promise. And I failed."

Edgar said, "I'm sorry." And no more.

Locke had been prepared for Edgar to pry, or needle him about it, or — the most remote possibility but by far the worst — steer too far in the other direction and come over all sympathetic. Whether this was tact or simple not giving a shit, Locke was grateful.

"I'll do it, though," he said, at last. "Stopping Gestahl is more important than my drama." He could make the world safe for Rachel now, if he hadn't then. Too little, too late was still more than nothing.

"Thank you," Edgar said somberly. "And thank you for trusting me with this."

"I mean, you just handed me your entire legacy no questions asked. Kind of a dick move if I didn't."

"Well, all the same." He went on in a lighter tone, "I'll just make sure to come home alive and spare you the trip, huh?" and slung a jokey arm across Locke's shoulders.

It _was_ a joke, right? This was a normal thing between friends. Kind of weird, honestly, kind of pathetic, that the warmth and weight of the gesture went through Locke like a knife, lodging somewhere in his guts. Stupid to think now about how long it had been since anyone had offered him such casual acceptance, and how little he deserved it.

A normal thing between friends. Maybe it would still be normal if, for half a second, he leaned into his friend's side. But no. Better not risk it.

* * *

  
They had a meeting on the books for nine days after Edgar's return from the Empire. And Edgar did show up, apparently none the worse for the trip. Locke's relief was tempered by the fact that he showed up twenty-five minutes late and — oh yeah, by the way — dead drunk.

"So terribly sorry to have kept you. I misplaced my agenda," he said, pretending like he wasn't swaying in place, and like he hadn't been herded up to the study by a couple of servants who reported they had found him "wandering around."

"Where'd you drop it, down a wine barrel?" Locke snapped.

"No. It would be too dark to read in there." He squinted. "What are you trying to suggest?"

"I'll come back another time."

"What's wrong with now?"

Locke waved at him disgustedly. "Look at yourself."

Edgar looked down at himself. Then he looked at Locke, dubious. "I cut a dashing figure. What's your point?"

He couldn't believe he'd bothered being worried about this asshole. "My point is, I'll get your report sometime when you're not hammered."

"Now, now, that's putting it a bit strongly," said Edgar, and pulled his chair very carefully back from his desk, and very carefully lowered himself into it, and with the most elaborate caution rested one ankle on the opposite knee. If he'd meant to inspire confidence in his sobriety, he should've performed this maneuver faster than half speed. "I'm fully prepared to answer your questions."

The only question occurring to Locke at present was _Man, what the hell,_ so he refrained. He could be diplomatic _sometimes._

Edgar glanced toward the door to confirm that it was shut and the servants had gone. Then he said, "Can I be blunt? We're friends, right?"

"Is that the blunt part?"

"Because..." he uncrossed his legs and sat forward, gripping the arms of his chair. "Because what I saw on that ship scared the _piss_ out of me." He leaned into it like he didn't say that word often, and relished the chance at vulgarity. Locke gave up congratulating himself for his own restraint. I'd never get anything done in politics, he thought, I'd be concentrating too hard on not calling people motherfuckers. "The damage that thing could do — and he wants to commission _five._ And — I don't know how to stop it."

"We weren't expecting you to stop it," said Locke. "Just get a look around."

"And if I... as you put it, 'got a look around.' And then didn't try to stop it. I think I'd never sleep again." Locke just stared at him, with a growing suspicion that he'd misread something. Edgar shook his head and leaned back again. "I went in there thinking, 'I can handle this.' I've been doing this king thing for a few years now, I can handle myself in a fight, I can equivocate with the best of 'em. How hard could it be? Just be pleasant and don't commit to anything and don't get taken hostage or beheaded or whatever. Easy enough on paper." In what world was that easy? "But actually getting on that thing. Having to smile and make conversation, we're all friends here, you definitely never killed my father, it's fine that we're eating stuffed mushrooms on board a floating war crime. I'm so far out of my depth it's not even funny. I'm just a regular dumbass," he said. "And the only thing protecting me is that people think I'm just a regular dumbass!"

"You said the same thing twice."

He reined himself in. "There is this practice," he began gravely, but then wavered, and swallowed, and lost his dignified air, "called sandbagging."

"Like in poker."

"Yes." He didn't elaborate. His eyes had gone distant. Locke discreetly angled himself away; when you saw that look on a drunk person they were either thinking deep thoughts or trying not to hurl. But eventually Edgar said, "I should probably show you," so it must've been the first one. He got up and walked with surprising steadiness to the door. Then he paused, squinting back at Locke. "But first. You promise to keep your greasy hands to yourself."

"'Greasy?' Just a damn minute —"

"Grubby, oily, whatever." He opened the door. "No touching." He stepped out into the hall. He stepped back into the study. "I mean it."

"No touching what?"

"Follow me." He went out into the hall again, and down the stairs. Locke thought briefly of taking his arm so he wouldn't stumble, but then thought, Fuck it, if he's gonna talk to me like that, these greasy hands are staying in my pockets. Still, he kept close at Edgar's back in case of mishaps.

Across the arcade, down another staircase. An old man waited at the bottom of these stairs, in a small room with sharp shadows cast by the bluish light in the ceiling. Parts of the castle had electricity, Locke had noticed on his first visit, and parts didn't, with no apparent rhyme or reason —

"The generator?" he said. Then at least the injunction not to touch anything would make sense. And he could hear something humming, somewhere, growing louder as they went underground.

"Your Majesty," said the old man, looking dubiously between Edgar and Locke. "This is —"

Edgar flapped a hand at him, unconcerned. "No, no, I'm not doing any tinkering in this state, of course not. I just need to be down here." He nodded toward Locke. "Locke's fine. Any questions?"

"Why —"

"Because I said so." He softened this pronouncement with a genial smile. "Don't lose any sleep over it, okay? We'll be perfect schoolboys. Locke, this way."

Halfway down this next flight of stairs, Edgar remarked, "Actually, I've never been to a school. Are schoolboys known for good behavior?"

"In my case? The opposite."

"Oh, excellent."

Locke could feel the rumbling through his feet as they descended the last stretch. Instead of the cool damp he expected from basements, the air was dry and smelled like hot metal.

"Mind you," said Edgar, "it's only on standby at the moment."

"What is?"

Edgar reached the bottom. The heels of his boots rang against a steel plate. "Come and see," he said, without turning, and threw a switch on the wall. A second or two of a low buzz and fitful electrical snapping, and then, row by row, lights blinked on overhead.

Locke took the last few steps down, onto a walkway overlooking... shit, it was the size of a city block. And it was all one machine, pipes and belts and fans purring to each other — he followed one tube with his eyes as far as he could, until it snaked around to disappear behind the gigantic cylinders of...

If this wasn't the biggest engine in the world, it was easily top three. And if this wasn't the biggest engine in the world, Locke would be afraid to look at the winner.

Edgar braced his hands on the railing before him and gazed out at the sprawl of metal and tubing. "This is it," he said. He'd gone all vague in the face. "This is my baby."

Finally Locke managed to say, "Funny-looking baby."

Edgar whipped around and said with a vehemence that would've been beneath his dignity if he'd been sober, "I'm doing my _best._"

Locke held up his hands. "Okay, okay, sorry. It looks very smart. It's got your… eyes?"

Edgar relaxed again, turning back to his study of the engine. "Always liked machines," he said. "They make sense. Y'know, I used to… When Dad was alive, I used to…" His voice dwindled. "I shouldn't say."

"I won't tell anyone," Locke said. He was in no position to turn down any clues to — whatever was going on here.

Edgar considered, and then nodded. He spoke toward the engine, its thrum almost swallowing his words. Locke discreetly moved to his side. "I used to daydream about — if I wasn't a prince, I thought — I'd have a house by a river. Couldn't think of anything more exotic than rivers. A river, and a water wheel for power, and — I'd make machines to help people. Just — fixing things." Edgar took his hands off the railing and contemplated them, until he lost his balance and had to grab on again to hold himself up. He sighed wistfully. "But that's not realistic. Sabin…"

He fell silent. Locke, as much as he wanted to, didn't ask.

At length Edgar said: "I mean, I've never done laundry in my life! How would I live alone?"

"I'm just guessing, but you could probably make a machine for that."

"Genius!" Edgar slapped one hand down on the rail. There was a ping of metal on metal; distorted echoes bounced back from the depths of the machine. Edgar stared down at his hand in perplexity. "Wait," he said, "that's not supposed to come down here," and stripped off his signet ring. "Though maybe it doesn't matter since I'm not actually working on anything." He slid it back on. "Don't rat me out, okay? I swear I'm more responsible than this."

Locke looked at him sidelong. "You missed our meeting getting drunk by yourself, but sure. You're plenty responsible. Whatever you say."

"I'm sorry. I really am. I…" He stopped. "There was…" And he stopped again, and shook his head. "I won't make excuses."

"Did something happen with Gestahl?"

_"Diplomacy,"_ said Edgar, in a tone so suddenly withering that Locke was taken aback. But after a moment he sighed and waved a dismissive hand. "But it's important work. Never mind me. It's what I'm here for. Of course I'd rather — well, but who wouldn't? Let's not be frivolous."

And here I thought you were the most frivolous motherfucker I'd ever met, Locke thought. He couldn't decide whether he should feel bad for underestimating the guy, since after all, he wanted to be underestimated. Still…

He cleared his throat. "So, not to put too fine a point on it, but, uh — what does this thing do?"

"It won't save us, I can tell you that. It'll protect… some people. For a while. But I can't do everything. We need more — more weapons, more time. And we may not get it."

"And?" said Locke. "Say we don't get any more of anything. We'll still make do with what we've got. I at least wanna go down swinging." He waved toward the engine. "So I'll ask again. In layman's terms, please. What does the big damn machine do?"

"Right, let me dumb this down for you," said Edgar. He held up his forefingers a short distance apart. "Castle wings… retract." He brought his hands together. "Castle… digs hole." He pointed both fingers at the floor. "Hole under mountain —" He couldn't figure out where he was supposed to be pointing now, made an awkward scooping gesture, and then stood there blinking in confusion.

"You're lucky you're drunk," said Locke. "Otherwise I'd have to punch you for being such a patronizing asshole."

"You'll get your shot," Edgar said seriously. "I'm just as annoying sober. That's a promise."

Locke snorted. "Oh, I'm sure."

"Anyway, look. It tunnels — or, well, in the ideal case it takes advantage of natural caverns once it's underground." He waved a hand. "Saves wear and tear. You know how it is."

"Your castle goes underground."

"Yeah?"

"And you built this?"

"We had stuff, I just made it better." Locke wondered, What the hell kind of stuff? "No, no. Compliment me on retrofitting the library to take the strain. Do you have any idea what kind of shock absorbers —"

"I wasn't gonna compliment you."

"Liar. And then, there's keeping it illuminated when it's in motion, _you_ probably wouldn't think of that problem, but I did."

"Why? So you can keep reading dirty magazines when you're under siege?"

"Gentlemen," Edgar said primly, "read dirty _poetry._"

Locke shook his head, laughing. "You pretentious fuck."

"I'm not kidding. If you had more culture, you'd know. Some of the great writers of antiquity were legendary horndogs." He frowned. "And… and usually wrong about astronomy. But I digress. Humans have never changed, and I think that's good. I think. If all of history is just — lovable dimwits doing their best, then…"

"Then we're in good company, huh?"

Edgar smiled at him. Which wasn't rare, because Edgar was a smiley bastard to begin with. But for once Locke didn't see any posturing, any irony, any defensive wall. It couldn't serve any conceivable agenda. It was just... sunshine.

Then the idiot tried to put a foot up on a lower rung of the railing, overbalanced, and almost toppled, and Locke had to grab him and pull him back. How far I've come, Locke thought. I just started out in the spy business six months ago and I'm already manhandling world leaders. In another year maybe I'll be sticking a knife in Kefka's face.

"Okay," said Edgar, patting Locke's arm, "I've got this. Thank you. I've got it."

"You sure?" Locke let him go, but stood ready to grab hold again if need be. Edgar was starting to look woozy again. He might have rallied enough to show off the engine, but the crash was coming.

"What'd I tell you?" he said carelessly. "Iron constitution." And lurched forward. Locke caught him with a hand against his chest. "Just a little tired. It's warm."

"You can't pass out down here. Do you have any idea how bad that would look for me?"

He grinned. "Oh, pretty bad."

"Don't sound so cheerful about it. I can't carry you up all those stairs, you big lug."

"I am not a 'big lug,'" said Edgar, matter-of-factly, "it's just that you have the physique of a… like a..." He thought about this, and then straightened, and then declaimed, "A half-starved ferret that's been left out in the rain."

Bold words for someone that half-starved ferret was still half propping up. "I'll let you fall," said Locke.

Edgar snorted. "Do it. I'll stay there and I won't get up. If you want to, you can abandon me here, and maybe get arrested, for being so cavalier with the person of the king. Otherwise we both have to sleep in the engine room. I'd enjoy that. You wouldn't."

"What," said Locke, "you've slept down here before? You?"

"Is that weird?"

"You always seemed like a canopy bed type of asshole to me. Five or six servants fanning you with palm fronds. The works."

"First of all, that is _so_ inefficient. And you know, if you wanted to see my bed, you could've just said so. We could make arrangements."

Locke rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I don't doubt it. What was your phrase? 'Legendary horndog?'"

"No, no, be fair. I haven't entered into legend yet," said Edgar. "But I'm all of twenty-four, so I figure there's time." He leaned a little harder into Locke's shoulder. "Anyway. What's your verdict? Are we sleeping down here? You could try it. The sound is relaxing."

Locke stared at him. "You're serious," he said, dubiously, and looked out at the engine again. "This is yours? You made this?"

"I maintain it. You don't listen. I make — other things."

"So — what you said about sandbagging."

"Perhaps you've noticed. I have access to a lot of sand."

"If this thing works like you say —"

"Of course it does," Edgar said, suddenly stern. "But you'll have to take my word for it. People live here. I'm not declaring a state of emergency just to show it off and — and gratify your whims. I find the request shocking and disappointing. And _selfish._" Then he grinned, and this was one of the most annoying ones. "And it's very cool and you're missing out. Ha ha." He jabbed a finger into Locke's sternum.

"Ow, fuck off."

"But if you're curious. I could show you something on a smaller scale."

Locke heaved an exasperated sigh. "No, Edgar, I don't wanna see your dick."

"Oh, you _wish_ that was on offer." He leaned in and said, close to Locke's ear, "But it is, for the record, an extremely sophisticated mechanism." Then he withdrew, waggling his eyebrows. Never had the word "sophisticated" seemed less relevant.

"Ugh, fuck you. We're going upstairs," said Locke. "I can't listen to any more of this."

"Very well." He did not resist as Locke rearranged them both to better support this dumbass up the stairs. "But I do want it known that you started it."

Locke slipped an arm around Edgar's back. It was warm. The guy radiated heat, like the stones of the castle at the end of the day. Like the engine that had been sleeping down here in secret all along.

Or, y'know, like a regular person who just happened to run slightly hotter than average. Any inclination to feel all cozy and metaphorical vanished when faced with the reality of all these fucking stairs. At the top of that first narrow flight, while Locke caught his breath, Edgar said, "Oh, bravo, well done. Three more to go."

"Hell with it," Locke wheezed, "you're sleeping here."

"No, no. You have to finish what you started. Remember what I said about having you arrested." Was he deliberately throwing more of his weight against Locke? Was he dragging them down on purpose? Fucking prick. "Good luck! I'm rooting for you."

The last flight felt like ten. "Well, I for one am exhausted," said Edgar, and Locke almost pitched him back down the stairs. "Here's my stop. Take a guest room. You know where. Please refrain from treasure hunting any of the smaller objets d'art."

"What about the big ones?"

"If you can make off with any of those, I'll just be impressed. Good night," he said, and shouldered open the door to his chambers, after which, judging by the sound, he immediately threw himself facefirst into bed.

Once in the guest room, Locke tried picking up a bronze statuette, only to find it was bolted to the shelf. And so was everything else he tested — or it was strapped in, or screwed into place. He slipped into the next room over and found the same.

"Smartass," he muttered, letting himself back out, and checked the hall clock. By their standards, this meeting had been an early one, and it was only a little past 11PM. There was still time to do some asking around, and fuck knew, after that encounter he had some questions.

He managed to hunt down the housekeeper, a Mrs. Abano, near the kitchen on her nightly rounds. He hadn't often spoken to her directly, since he was usually here at stupid hours of the night, but he'd asked a couple of the servants he did know to put in a good word for him. "Evening, Mr. Cole," she said, with a polite nod, and a look indicating she could already guess his first five questions. Okay. The word must've been good, then.

"Good evening," he said, and cut to the chase. "What is _wrong_ with the king? Does he do that often?"

"No," she said, "not often at all. It's the strangest thing. Normally the worst he'll do is rearrange furniture, but he's been a nightmare since he got back."

"Nightmare how?" said Locke, who was familiar with the ways rich bastards could make life hell for the poor bastards working under them. He wouldn't have taken Edgar for the type, but people surprised you all the time. "I can sm — I can talk some sense into him if you want."

"The ministers are all out of sorts and saying he's ignoring them. They'll come out of a meeting and say he spent the whole time staring right through them and drawing weird diagrams. Which didn't affect us, much, except the ministers being cranky just makes everyone's lives a little worse. But then," she said, leaning in, "but _then_, couple days into this, he starts going from room to room pointing out random things. Sharp corners and heavy objects and bits of glass. 'That's a hazard,' he says, and just sails out again. What's he expect us to do, wrap it all in mattresses?"

"Nail everything down?" Locke suggested.

"Oh, you noticed. Well — it's all we can do. He keeps getting underfoot, but then he's never anywhere to be found when you need to talk to him, and I ask you, king or no, how does a person do both? And this latest embarrassment — roving around the portrait gallery, of all places, with enough booze for a small army — we're all lucky it was you he stood up and not someone less understanding."

And then she realized how much she'd said and leaned away again, biting her lip. "I shouldn't. His Majesty — but he might listen to you. You might tell him to settle down and quit being — quite frankly — a nuisance."

Locke considered the state in which he'd left His Drunk-Ass Majesty. "Going out on a limb here, but I think he'll be pretty quiet tomorrow."

"Thank you," she said, with conviction.

"I mean, sure, I hope it makes your life easier. But I can't take credit." And wasn't gonna take the blame, either, if by some chance a hung over Edgar was even more of a nightmare.

But he had defenses in place, and he was apparently standing ready to use them. Banon would want to know.

* * *

  
The next time Locke came to Figaro, Edgar instructed him to use a completely different secret passage, which just raised the question — how many secret passages did one man need?

"Hey, asshole," Locke said by way of greeting, turning the crank that pulled the ladder up behind him, "how many secret passages do you —" And he turned, and looked around. He had never been in this room before. There was a hulking tool chest in the far corner, and more stuff arrayed on nails and hooks in the walls, and — what was that, a grinder? A lathe? A bunch of other big menacing shit with big menacing moving parts? A giant maze of cams and crankshafts linked up for fuck knew what purpose?

"Sorry for the trouble," said Edgar, who was not sorry. "For reasons both boring and complicated, I need to take extra care about what's discussed in my study in the next couple of months. Back to normal after that. But we'll be private here." He looked slowly around his workshop, then gave a satisfied nod. "No one comes here but me. So if it's ever compromised, I'll know, the instant anything isn't how I left it."

Locke blurted out, "And you're not gonna, like, stick my hand in that press? If you don't like my information?"

"What?" Edgar bridled. "No! Did you think this was — this isn't meant to intimidate. I just wanted to — here, can I show you something I'm working on?"

Do you _promise_ it's not your dick, Locke thought of saying. But he didn't. He'd never seen the guy look this earnest — at least, not sober. "You know I probably won't understand it, right?"

"That's fine. Just humor me?"

He could be weirdly hard to turn down. So Locke humored him — then, and for the next couple of months. He didn't really get the details, and he didn't try to. But around the time Edgar showed him a hand drill that could punch through steel plate (even if the sound was absolute torture), he understood something else.

Edgar was good at this. This was what he wanted to be doing. And he'd confined it to this one little room, out of the whole castle, and knuckled down and run a country instead.

Banon might want to know this, too.


	2. Chapter 2

That idiot from that bar in Narshe — was it over a year ago now? — swung down from his chocobo and said, "Do you take constructive criticism?" And patted the animal's neck, prompting it to run off home, and pulled off his riding gloves, because of course this fancy bastard had riding gloves. The cuffs were embroidered.

"Not from you," said Locke.

"I do trust my staff, but accidents happen. If you'd just made this sound a _little_ more like an assignation —"

"Not happening."

"No one would blink at my getting a letter saying, for example, 'I need you. I can't wait any longer. Only you can quench the fire that burns in my —'"

"Bullshit, you've never gotten a letter like that in your life. There'd be a national panic. They'd put you under house arrest. 'No one's ever fallen for His Majesty's weak-ass game, this has to be an evil plot!'" He stopped. He gave Edgar a critical look, and then groaned. "I specifically said no mustache! What's wrong with you?"

"Ah, yes. I did want to ask you why you would stipulate something so odd."

"It was disgraceful in Narshe and it's disgraceful now."

Edgar sighed, sending a ripple through... that... thing. Locke could not stop himself from cringing. "Locke, we've been over this. You need to let it go. Your obsession with this mystery man is starting to depress me."

"You're literally wearing the exact same clothes."

"This is worse than I thought. They've been working you too hard, haven't they? It's all right, you can admit it. How long have you had this belief that you've seen the future?"

I did finally get him out of the castle, Locke thought. There aren't any guards around. Maybe this is finally my chance to kick his ass.

Edgar patted his shoulder. "Well, whenever you're ready to tell me about it, I'm here. Oh, yeah, and about your other problem." He rummaged around in his traveling bag — which was sturdy, plain canvas. At least he'd had the sense not to paint a target on this one thing — and retrieved a packet of herbs, which he tossed to Locke. "You were running low, right?"

Unsure whether to say "thank you" or "go to hell," Locke nodded and tucked it into his pocket. They walked together the rest of the way, although Locke couldn't look the guy in the face without getting offended by his wildly shitty disguise. So he just didn't look. At the end of the road, just outside Jidoor, was the dinky little inn that was supposed to put them up until tomorrow's meeting with the Returners, and of course Edgar started trying to chat up a maid within twelve seconds. Not that she was holding up her end of the conversation — too busy staring in horror and wonder at his mustache. 

Locke pushed him aside and went to get the key from the innkeep — a middle-aged war widow the Returners had done business with before. Though he wasn't sure how much she knew.

"In the back," she said, and handed him the keys, and then peered over his shoulder for a look at her other guest.

Locke moved to block her, smiling apologetically. "It's really better if you don't see. Trust me."

He went back to the entrance and tapped Edgar on the shoulder. "Your pardon, please," said Edgar, "I was just asking this charming young lady for the lay of the land —"

"You could ask me, you know."

Edgar sighed, turning to Locke. "The operative phrase is 'charming young lady.' You rate, at best, one out of three."

"C'mon, make it two. I'm not that old."

Edgar snorted. It did appalling things to the blond caterpillar fixed to his upper lip. "All right, all right. We may as well settle in." He turned back and kissed his hand to the maid. "Thank you ever so much for your time." She stared at him, very obviously trying not to laugh in his face, until Locke grabbed his elbow and pulled him away.

But Edgar stopped again in the doorway to their room. "Oh, no," he said, deadpan, "there aren't enough beds."

"What are you talking about? There's two."

"Yeah, both for me. We'll have to push them together. I've never slept on a twin-size mattress before, and today will not be the day I start. I'm already making enough sacrifices."

"You're shitting me."

Edgar laughed. "Absolutely! But, man, can you imagine?" He gave Locke a slap on the back as he pushed past, then slung his bag onto the bed nearer the window. "Dibs."

Locke thought, Damn, he's way too excited about this.

"So what should I expect?" Edgar said, after poking around every corner of the room, making comments on the decor that went utterly over Locke's head. He sat down on the bed beside his luggage. "How much can you tell me?"

Locke pulled a chair over from under the writing desk, turned it backwards, and sat resting his arms across the slats. "Okay. Tomorrow morning, a guy I know will come get us and lead us somewhere. Anything he wants to do to keep the location secret, just roll with it."

"Ooh. He's not going to put bags over our heads, is he?"

"Tell you what," said Locke, "I'm sure you can make a request."

"Can I ask that he only puts a bag over yours?"

Locke rolled his eyes. "Do you want to know what I know, or not?"

"Yes. Sorry, go on, you have my undivided attention."

Locke would never admit it, but there was something disconcerting about Edgar's undivided attention. Like in his head he was breaking you down to some finnicky technical diagram for later study. But maybe that was a put-on, too. Locke had once seen this guy get clotheslined by a statue; he couldn't be that sharp. (The statue was in his own castle. He knew where it was.) It didn't matter how blue his eyes were, this was still the imbecile who'd decided to recycle a disguise that hadn't even worked last time. And he'd made the mustache _worse._

"Right," said Locke. "So. We got our hands on some machinery out of Vector. As far as I know, it's not related to the boat project, but honestly, they didn't tell me much and I understood maybe half of what they did."

"Do we think Gestahl has shifted priorities?"

"Would it be a good thing if he had?"

"The options I'm looking at now are 'sabotage the fleet somehow' or 'evacuate South Figaro and cram everyone into the castle before that lunatic fries the entire coastline.' And I haven't been making great progress on either front. If he's got a new favorite toy, I guess both those issues are off my plate. But…" A rueful half-shrug. "One assumes a totally new set of logistics problems will take their place."

"Wait, what's this about sabotage?"

"Oh, come now." He grinned. He seemed to be going for "roguish charm," but the mustache got in the way. In fact, the mustache retroactively spoiled every time he had tried to be charming in the past five or six months. "Breaking stuff is at least as fun as putting it together." Then he looked thoughtful. "The hard part would be placing someone in the shipyard who could carry out my instructions. And making it look like an intrinsic failure instead of a hostile act. And making that intrinsic failure look like something they couldn't just engineer around, so they abandon the project." That grin returned. "On consideration, the hard part is all of it. Anyway. Continue. From your note, I assume I'm here to look at this gizmo."

"I don't even think it's an entire gizmo. It's, like, a piece of a gizmo."

"Intriguing."

"And they're moving it out of here tomorrow evening — they're gonna take it somewhere else and destroy it so it can't be traced to us. I mean, hopefully. So you've got one day to make whatever sense of it you can." Locke paused. "I did kinda stick my neck out recommending you for this. Don't let me down."

"Never have, never will."

That was reassuring for about three seconds. Then Locke remembered that he'd written specifically asking Edgar to be discreet, and on that score he'd never been let down harder in his whole fucking life.

"Frankly, I'm grateful for the opportunity," Edgar said, as if unaware how hard Locke was frowning at him. "I haven't done as much for the effort as I'd like. And I get to look at new tech, and I've managed to slip the leash for a whole weekend. You're doing me a huge favor, so thank you."

"Yeah, sure thing."

"Do you know anything about where we're meeting?" Locke started to answer. Edgar held up a hand. "I know, I know, it's a secret, but you've been here before, right? Any ideas? Hunches? Your guess is worlds better than mine. I've been to Jidoor, naturally, but never this quarter. Always getting wined and dined by that passel of insufferable snobs…"

"Wow," Locke said flatly, "sounds terrible."

"I beg your pardon?"

"It must be so awful to have people throwing fancy food and booze at you all day. And it's just another bunch of rich douchebags so far up their own asses they can't see daylight. I'd think you would fit right in, Your Majesty."

"No. Wrong. We're completely different. Their tax structure is barbaric, for one thing —" He stopped. "What a historic day, I think that's the first time you've called me that." Then he shook himself and resumed his train of thought. "— and they always think they can get better terms for themselves, just by parading beautiful women in front of me until my brain turns into mush."

Locke snorted. "Does it work?"

"The Empire tries it, too, actually. That's one nice thing about having one's weaknesses so widely known. You know in advance what angle the attack's coming from." He tilted his head back, his eyes rolling toward the ceiling, and sighed. "But _damn,_ if it isn't a struggle sometimes."

Someone had to teach this guy to cuss without making such a meal out of it. He'd never pass for a regular person.

"Hey, actually, we should swap intelligence," said Edgar, straightening. "I know one half of this city. You know the other."

"I know both, actually," said Locke, and made a point of boredly drumming his fingers on the chair back. "There's nothing you can tell me."

"Really! Don't tell me they invited you to one of their little art shows?"

"Of course I wasn't invited."

"Oh." His eyes lit up. He leaned forward. "Tell me more. Who were you robbing? Did you get away with anything? When was this?"

Locke had not expected this level of interest. "Maybe four years ago? Do you have some personal investment in —"

"Okay, was there a man, about 5'8", with a very obviously infected nose piercing, that he kept saying was supposed to look like that? Because he was trying to be a trendsetter, but it looked so painful that nobody was willing to follow him on it? But then he stuck with it for another six months trying to save face."

Weirdly, there had been. "I think I got his cufflinks."

Edgar laughed delightedly. "Good! I hate that guy."

"Is he someone important?"

"Yes, very. Thank you so much."

"Then who was it?"

Edgar stopped looking gleeful long enough to feign surprise. "But Locke, you said I had nothing to tell you." And then threw himself back on the bed, cackling. "Ah, this is why we're friends."

"Uh, wrong. We're friends because Banon said I had to put up with you."

"Details, details."

"And speaking of. Are you really gonna go meet your revolutionary contacts looking like that?"

Edgar said lazily, "I anticipate changing my shirt between now and then."

"The mustache —"

"Stays."

Locke gritted his teeth, but there was no fighting him on this one. "Okay, could you at least change your hair? Something other than your extremely recognizable signature style?"

"I can't fathom what you're suggesting."

"I guess you can't cut it, because then you'd have to explain when you got back home —"

"And for no other reason?" Edgar said dryly.

"But at least lose one of the ribbons. And there's always dye —" Locke got up. "Here, roll up your sleeve for a sec?" Looking equal parts amused and perplexed, Edgar did so. Locke crossed over to him and took hold of his elbow, angling it to let him inspect the bared forearm. "Hm, yeah. Your arm hair's blond too, so you wouldn't be able to go too dark. People might twig that something is wrong."

"You're assuming I go around flaunting my arms at all and sundry. Although maybe I should..."

"It's one of those things people pick up on subconsciously. But you could get away with a medium brown." Edgar, rolling his sleeve back down, looked faintly insulted by the suggestion. "Or gray," said Locke, offhand, and now he looked appalled. Locke grinned. "What? Plenty of people start graying in their twenties. It's nothing shameful."

"Okay," said Edgar, "fine, I've received your suggestion. Just know that I will never act on it as long as I live."

"There are kinds that'll wash right out in a day or two."

"Good to know. Still never."

"And remember to get your eyebrows, when you never do this. If you overlook those, it's really noticeable."

Edgar sighed irritably. "All right, how's this?" He pulled out the ribbons holding back his hair and swung it forward over one shoulder in a long golden wave. And then — while he stared off at nothing in particular, looking bored — whipped it into a braid with startling speed. His hands never faltered. He never looked at it, even as he retrieved one of the ribbons and tied it off again.

"Efficient," Locke said, finally, when he remembered he was supposed to respond.

Had it always taken this much effort not to stare at the guy's hands? Should he have been staring at them more? The steadiness, the assurance — if he hadn't been busy running a kingdom or something, he'd make a perfectly decent card sharp. 

No, maybe not that. His default expression of vacant friendliness was a bit much. Looking back at their first meeting, it was kind of embarrassing Locke hadn't realized that he was being hustled. The trouble was, Edgar was smart enough to try to fake stupid, but too real-stupid to fake stupid convincingly.

"It was kind of a nervous habit when I was little," said Edgar. Oh, right. The braid. This was not actually about whether King Edgar Figaro could be persuaded to embark on a life of crime. "One time Sabin hacked all his hair off with kitchen shears so I'd stop doing it to him too."

Locke took up a position on the other bed and lay back, pillowing his head on his folded arms. He stared at the ceiling. He didn't see the ceiling. The only thing in his head suddenly was that arm, those hands, that smooth and shining braid, and what it must feel like weaving it together, gliding fingers through that long, long hair —

Edgar said absently, "I hope they cleaned those shears. We were not tidy children."

"What's he like?" said Locke, trying to distract himself. Fuck's sake. It was just Edgar. "Your brother, I mean."

Edgar hesitated. At last he said, "I don't know. It's been a long time. I know how I remember him, but as much as I've grown up since he left, I have to assume he's done the same." He sighed. 

Then, briskly, "That's not what you asked. You want more dirt on the old days — so, here, this is illustrative. One afternoon I dug this gigantic old clock out of storage and dragged Sabin over to look at it. It was still running after who knew how many years of neglect, and I'd just been reading about clocks, so I got it open and showed him all the moving parts, and then I think" — he laughed a little at the memory — "I just started lecturing him about different types of escapements. That one had a really interesting low-friction mechanism, actually — a bit of a historical curiosity. It narrows down the date of manufacture to a five-year range, and… I'm doing it again. Sorry." But it hadn't occurred to Locke to be bothered. It wasn't like it was a chore, letting Edgar's voice roll over him, on the rare occasions it wasn't saying something completely asinine. He was a king, anyway. With all the talking he had to do, they must have drilled him in how to make it sound good. That much made sense. "Anyway, Sabin let me go on about this for ages, and then he said, 'You wanna know something else about this clock?'" Pause for effect. "'It says we're gonna be late for dinner.'"

Locke wasn't sure what this was supposed to illustrate — only that Edgar, for whatever reason, thought it was delightful. "Well, were you?"

"Very nearly! And then I would've gotten yelled at." He laughed again. "He spotted the only important piece of information, long before I did, and I wish I could say that was the only time. And I'm sure he had no idea what I was talking about, but he listened anyway."

"And left you open to getting yelled at?"

"That's nothing," he said, defensive. "I should've been more responsible, that's all."

"So, what, were you the designated fall guy?"

"It wasn't like that." A long, thoughtful pause. "I guess you could say I was the ideas guy, more than anything else. Most of the good ideas were mine, but more importantly, so were all the bad ones. So if anything went wrong, it must've been my doing." He chuckled. "Besides, I was bigger than him. I could strongarm him into anything, if I had to." Another pause, and then, quieter, "I usually didn't have to."

Locke said nothing. Even if he'd known what to say, he wouldn't have said it. He probably should've realized that questions about one's long-lost brother would cut close to the bone. It'd just never occurred to him that Edgar could be cut.

"He was always too soft-hearted," Edgar went on in the same abstracted tone, as if no longer aware Locke was there. He drew in a breath, and Locke started to feel preemptively weird about hearing a recitation of the flaws of some guy he'd never met and probably never would. Instead Edgar said, "I hope that hasn't changed."

Something in his voice made Locke sit up again and study him. He looked tired and sad and achingly noble — to the extent you could ignore the mustache.

You really couldn't ignore the mustache, and you couldn't ignore the fact that he was the kind of dumbass who thought the mustache was appropriate. When it had just been his voice against the half-darkened ceiling, Locke had thought about going over to him, apologizing for poking at old wounds, offering his shoulder. Confronted with the reality of Edgar Figaro, National Embarrassment, he thought, Nah, he's fine.

Locke lay back down. Within half a minute Edgar was back on form, rambling about dumb shit, like nothing had ever happened.

* * *

In the morning Edgar was sluggish and monosyllabic, buttoned his shirt wrong, and only blinked in confusion at the suggestion of breakfast. They hadn't even been up that late, Locke thought — or at least, he hadn't. He remembered dozing off to the sound of Edgar making increasingly irreverent predictions about the Empire's new weapon. "You didn't go out partying after I was asleep, did you?" he asked.

Edgar gave him a sidelong look, eyelids at half-mast. "It's not even eight o'clock. What do you want from me." Locke pointed to where one side of his shirt hung an inch lower than the other. "Balls," Edgar said sleepily, and took the better part of a minute to sort it out. When their escort arrived, a guy Locke knew only as Rod, Edgar was upright and personable, if a little quieter than usual; as soon as Rod had seen them into the waiting delivery wagon and gone out front to drive, he slumped again. His mustache had remained perfectly fixed in place overnight. The rest of him looked about to collapse around it.

"Not a morning person, huh?"

Edgar sighed and leaned his head against the wall. But Locke didn't have long to enjoy how dumb he looked with his cheek mashed flat and his mouth hanging open like one of those ornamental carp, because then the wagon started to move. And now they were jolting along in a dark, enclosed space that smelled like mulch, over a _very_ unfinished road, and in short order, all his attention was reserved for fighting down the nausea. It was half an hour before the wagon stopped. By that point they had to support each other down the offloading ramp.

"We're a disgrace," Edgar said confidentially, and Locke gave him a crooked grin. They stood together a while longer, getting their bearings, on the gravel of what turned out to be a railyard.

Rod shut up the wagon — they tried to look respectable for as long as he was in visible distance — and tipped his hat. "They're in one of the freight cars. I'll be back this evening to collect you." And drove off.

"Hope like hell we're not riding back in the same thing," Locke muttered.

"I don't know, it was an interesting change of pace," said Edgar. Locke glared at him. "I said 'was.' The novelty's rather worn off by now." He rubbed at the side of his neck where it met his shoulder, and something popped. "Do they have coffee in detached freight cars in the middle of nowhere?"

"Well, they're expecting you," said Locke, nodding down the hill toward the sorting yard and its rows of big boxy cars. Edgar followed his lead. "And I told them you're persnickety, so maybe."

"Did you?"

"Yeah, I said they should expect to cough up two or three grand on refreshments appropriate to your fancy-ass tastes. Oh, yeah, and no one's allowed to wear hats in your presence, and eye contact is a six-month sentence." 

"And how'd that go over?" Edgar said warily.

"They told me to go fuck myself. But I think I had 'em going for a second or two."

"Oh, great, you've made me some enemies in advance. Thank you for that." He ran a hand over his hair, smoothing it down. "Well. I've overcome bad first impressions before. A little challenge keeps things interesting."

Not with that stache, you haven't, Locke almost said, before remembering that he'd looked just as stupid the first time Locke had ever seen him and now they were basically best friends. And then he thought, wryly, Something must be wrong with me.

Feet crunched in the gravel. They both stopped and turned. A guy was flagging them down from between tracks.

"He's got a hat on," said Edgar. "Does that mean there won't be truffles, either?"

"If there's any kind of fungus in there," said Locke, "it'll be because someone's fucking with _me._"

"Couldn't happen to a nicer guy. Should we see what he wants?"

As they drew closer, Locke recognized this kid. His name was Zane — they hadn't worked together much, but he'd completely destroyed Locke at darts one night, which most people couldn't do and which entitled him to some respect. There was also the fact that he was about seventeen — maybe eighteen tops — and had been with the Returners two years already. Kid was dedicated for life, and he didn't even know what life was yet. Locke was a little wary around people like that, the true believers, who got into this shit out of pure unselfish conviction instead of —

Well, instead of other reasons. Then again, he was making assumptions. Zane wasn't too young to have a past.

"Hey, what's up," said Locke, once they were in earshot, and Zane gave him a distracted nod, busy trying to size Edgar up. When his gaze snagged on the mustache, he actually flinched. "Yeah, this loser's with me. I'm pretty sure he's not as stupid as he looks, but it's a close contest."

"Thanks so much," Edgar muttered. Then he slapped on an obliging smile and offered his hand to Zane, who shook it with an expression of total bewilderment. "I promise I don't breathe fire or anything," he said, as if that were the only possible reason for trepidation. "I'm here to consult about machines, nothing more, nothing less. The very last thing I want to do is cause anyone discomfort." Zane looked less comfortable with every word out of his mouth. Locke had to turn aside to hide a grin. "I hope we can work together amicably. Please do let me know if I impose too far." So polite. So self-effacing. Who knew he had it in him?

"Yeah, sure," said Zane, blank. But turning to Locke, he miraculously regained the ability to string sentences together. "We've got the machine in a car back here. Gonna connect to a train heading north at 7:15 tonight, so we wanna be cleared out by five. Oh, and the boss wanted to talk to you." He cut his eyes toward Edgar, a silent, _I'm not gonna ask, but I_ really _wanna ask._

"Got it," said Locke, making a few covert hand signals most thieves on the continent would read as _He's one of us._ Not that all Returners had that kind of background, but there were more than a few. Some of the experience was transferable. And the gamble paid off — Zane's eyes widened slightly in recognition. Locke said, "Let's not waste time, then."

As Zane led them to the car in question, Locke leaned toward Edgar and whispered, mockingly, "'I promise I don't breathe fire. Gosh, I'm just a simple machine guy. Let's all be friends.'"

"It's called damage control," said Edgar under his breath. "And I don't sound like that."

Zane rapped on the side of a heavily graffitied boxcar, got an answering rap from within, and unlatched the sliding door.

Edgar frowned at him. "Are we going to be sealed in?"

"I'll be out here watching the yard. If something goes wrong, you'll just have to go along for the ride. You can get off in Zozo, no one will be watching by then. Downside is you'll be in Zozo."

"My, this _is_ an adventure," said Edgar, calmer than you'd expect from an aristocrat faced with the prospect of a visit to that sinkhole. What, did he have a sword in his bag or something? Did he seriously think he could handle those cutthroats? But meanwhile Zane was rolling back the doors, revealing a widening slice of the darkness inside.

But it wasn't completely dark. A few lanterns rigged to the ceiling cast a cone of light down on two men, an abandoned game of checkers, and a tarp. The little guy was a mechanic from Narshe, although not one of the ones who'd gone with Edgar to see the ship; the beardy one was Banon. The tarp — well, he had no idea what was under the tarp, and he had no chance to speculate, because Edgar had already climbed aboard and was blocking his view.

"Love what you've done with the place," Edgar said, "though I hope you haven't been cooped up in here long. I'd imagine the scenery gets stale, to say nothing of the air." He offered his hand to the mechanic. "I don't think we've met, but if it helps, on a technical level we still haven't. You never saw me, I was never here, and so on. I am a nonentity." Locke did not have to see their faces to guess that he'd just winked, and that the mechanic was wondering, What the hell is wrong with this guy? "As such, there's no need for any reserve on either part. Especially given the timetables, I hope we can be collegial." Locke clambered up behind him, met the mechanic's gaze over his shoulder, and then shrugged to say, _Yeah, I dunno what his deal is, either._

"Shutting you in," said Zane, and slid the door closed behind them. If only being done with Edgar's nonsense was that simple for everyone.

The dark clamped down around them. The mechanic finally regained his balance and said, "What you're going to see was brought to us by a lady who smuggled it out of Vector —"

"Can I talk to her?" said Edgar. Predictably, all attention. 

"No way," said Locke. "Five seconds of you smarming at her and she'd go running back to the Empire."

"She's on her way back even now," said Banon. Edgar pivoted toward him with the most painfully gratuitous attitude of respect. "She's offered to try to get us more components."

"How courageous," Edgar murmured. A lady who could transport heavy machinery was probably his dream girl.

"That, or this leak was faked," said Locke. "She could still be on Gestahl's payroll. Giving us bogus weapons to get in good with us and point our attention the wrong way."

"Also possible. Which is another reason it's better she never sees you," Banon told Edgar. "But we think it's worth examining in any case. Thank you for taking the time." He turned to Locke again and nodded to the sliding door. "Locke, a moment while our experts orient themselves?"

"Sure."

Banon brushed past Edgar on his way, and paused long enough to mutter, "Nice mustache, Your Majesty."

"Oh," said Edgar, "uh, thanks," in the faint voice of someone who was just now realizing that everyone could see it. Someone who had just realized that Operation: Piss Off Locke was also making him look like a moron in front of the grown-ups. His shoulders came up around his ears.

Locke banged on the wall, waited for the all-clear from Zane, and pulled the door open again. He dropped into the gravel and helped Banon down behind him. From Edgar's direction, as the door slid home, could be heard a violent ripping sound and a pained whimper.

"Quite the character, this expert you brought along," Banon observed mildly.

"Hey, yeah, quick question. Did you know what you were getting me into? I mean, really know?"

"I had certain hopes you'd get along. Was I mistaken?"

"Well. No, but..." Locke searched for words, found none, and just said "Ugh" with more conviction than anyone ever had before. "I'm sure we can count on him. But he's a complete doofus. It's — he does both. I don't get it, either."

They walked up and down beside the tracks and compared notes on the ebb and flow of anti-Imperial sentiment in the towns of the northern continent, and Banon sketched out a new scouting operation he planned to tap Locke for. On their fourth or fifth pass, and while Locke was discreetly trying to angle for a slightly larger boat less liable to get tossed around like a cork, the boxcar's door grated open again. 

Edgar leaned out. There was a raw red spot just above his upper lip. Locke considered the probable reaction of whoever had to unload this car when they found a dumb-looking strip of blond hairs kicked into a corner somewhere, and smiled. And then stopped smiling. Awkward blotches aside, Edgar looked as serious as he'd ever seen him. "Come look at this," he said. "Both of you."

They stepped back inside. Edgar slid the door partway shut behind them, admitting only a six-inch bar of light and a narrow view of the empty tracks.

"Right." He motioned for the mechanic to hold their specimen up to the light. The man did so, with some difficulty; the piece was unwieldy, a fat quarter-cylinder attached to a convex metal plate. "Thank you," Edgar said to him, and then to Locke and Banon: "My colleague and I have agreed that this is a component for a Magitek laser cannon. What you see here is part of the barrel and its mount. It's not clear what kind of platform it'll be mounted on, but it's fair to assume it's a lot smaller than the boats they were testing last fall."

"Well," said Locke, "that's good, right? Smaller guns, less damage?"

"Less damage per gun — in theory, but we'll get back to that." Edgar shook his head. "It suggests they're shifting to prioritize more guns rather than bigger ones, which means a lot more tactical flexibility. You can't surround a city with one cannon, no matter how big. If you've got twenty cannons, even if each is proportionally weaker, that's a much different story."

Banon said, "We understood they couldn't produce Magitek units at that scale. They only have one factory."

"Right. So by implication, either this is a long game or they've increased capacity. I don't know about you, gentlemen, but I find either prospect... worrying." Edgar looked at each of them in turn, and then smiled grimly and said, "Let's continue." 

He took the piece from the mechanic and set the narrow end down on the floor, angling the tube so that Banon and Locke could see the back of the plate. An empty rectangular compartment was welded to the concave side. "If the same design practices hold over from the gunboat, that's the housing for a power supply. Again, more disturbing implications for their manufacturing capabilities, because it's a good bit smaller than anything we've seen out of Vector before. We don't know much about their — well, for convenience's sake, let's call them batteries. What we know is that they generate electricity through some apparently magical means, they deform magnetic fields even when not producing current, it's likely they can be recharged at facilities equipped for that purpose. And conventional wisdom as of yesterday was that they're bulky. We thought that imposed limits on how they could be transported and what they could be rigged up to, and we could roughly estimate how powerful a given unit was proportional to its size. If this is the genuine article, we may as well throw all of that out."

"'If?'" said Locke.

He nodded. "Like you said, this could be misdirection. It may not reflect anything Gestahl's seriously working on. Maybe it's from a scrapped project, or maybe it was designed purposefully to intimidate. But even then, I'd argue we should plan for worst-case scenarios. If they can't do this now, assume they'll be able to in a year at most."

"Why's that?"

"Have any of you met Kefka?" said Edgar. His posture sagged, just a little, and his voice was bleak and weary. "If this is a trick, it went through him. He thinks that kind of subterfuge is just delightful — but then he gets bored. Fast. He'll be thinking, why pretend to have earth-shattering power when we could have it for real? And no matter how many people he has to burn through, he'll get it. And Gestahl will keep funneling him money and pretend to have no idea what he does with it. What do you mean he's taken the lead engineers' families hostage, kidnapping isn't Imperial policy at all, and so on." 

Locke thought, And he has to make nice with those murderers on the regular.

"Anyway, as long as I'm here speculating wildly, one more note. You've no doubt noticed the arc here describes only a quarter of a circle. This piece arrived as a discrete unit — it wasn't chopped or melted off of anything. That suggests that the final form of this weapon involves four of these components arranged around a ring. It's possible each of those has its own power supply, but without knowing the output of one of the batteries, to say we might be dealing with four is meaningless. So I won't do any scaremongering on that score. What we do know is that this setup limits the cannon's total range of articulation. Which is to say, it can more or less only hit things that are right in front of it. So. Small mercies, I guess."

Pretty damn small, if they made enough to cover all the angles.

At length Banon said, "I see. Thank you for your analysis." He looked at the mechanic. "Do you agree? Anything to add?"

"That about covers it," the man said. Locke wondered what had really happened here — if this was a consensus or if Edgar had just steamrolled him. Edgar was hard to divert once he got going. And, shit, sometimes he even sounded like he knew what he was talking about. Go figure.

"We still have a few hours, correct?" said Edgar.

The mechanic pulled out a pocket watch. "It's twelve-thirty."

"Great. Is anyone attached to this thing in its current form?"

"Pardon?" said Banon.

"I mean, can I take it apart now? Not that there's much here to disassemble, but as long as we've got it, let's leave no stone unturned. At the very least, I can shave off some samples for analysis." He shook his head, muttering to himself, "These guys use the weirdest alloys."

"Fine by me," said the mechanic, so Banon gave Edgar the nod. Edgar set the component down directly beneath the light, then crossed to the far wall where he'd left his bag. After a moment he returned with a bulky leather roll, which he unfurled with a flourish on the floor next to this quarter of a death ray. It clanked open in jerky stages, showing an array of — okay, those were screwdrivers and that was a wrench and that one was an auger, Locke was pretty confident, but as the roll kept unrolling he started getting lost. And how many different sockets did one man need? And how much weight in highly specialized metal had this guy been lugging around all this time?

He said, "I guess we should stay out of your hair, huh? Or do you need anything?"

Edgar took a deep breath, scrutinizing his dim and dingy work area. Slowly, he let it out. "I hate to be a bother," he said (the liar), "but — coffee? As much as you can possibly get?"

Locke stepped back outside and bummed an insulated flask off Zane, with promises that he would return it free of any mustache or mustache-related residue. Edgar accepted it with effusive thanks. And then got to work, and stopped noticing anything else.

* * *

Their ride back to the inn was less cramped, and less agricultural-smelling — this one even had windows, they just had to sit back far enough to be invisible from the road. So fortunately Locke wasn't so sick this time. And this time Edgar was actually lucid. But for a long time they still didn't speak. Every time Locke glanced over, Edgar was staring at the floor.

At length he said, "I owe you all an apology." For what? Locke thought. For not singlehandedly blowing up that boat, or whatever you thought you were supposed to do? "I treated this excursion too lightly. Given the stakes, my behaving so frivolously was an insult to you, and the Returners, and the woman who brought us that machine." He closed his eyes. "People are going to die. A lot of people. And I was trying to get a leg up on you by gluing stuff to my face."

Okay. Definitely not the angle he'd expected. "But we're gonna save people. And you're helping."

"It's still a graver situation than..." He sighed, opening his eyes again. "I don't get to leave the castle behind much. I got carried away. I let myself think of this as an adventure with a friend, and not a critical mission for the future of the world, and — I'm sorry for failing to respect everyone's time."

Locke shifted in his seat. He had thought, sometimes, that he was owed an apology for one or another of Edgar's dumb schemes. But actually getting it was too damn weird. "It's both, though. Right? It's a critical mission, but also we're two idiots spending a weekend away. I mean — the Empire's not going anywhere. If you can't have fun under the shadow of imminent death, when the hell are you supposed to have fun?" Edgar gave him a searching look. He shrugged. "Anyway, I think you've already groveled enough for one day. Give it a rest."

"Excuse me? If you hadn't poisoned the well against me, I wouldn't have needed to —"

"You haven't figured it out yet?" Locke folded his arms behind his head. "I didn't say shit. I never told anyone who I was bringing, I just said, 'I know a guy.' So as far as Zane and the gang are concerned, you're some random dickhead who showed up wearing an awful mustache and did a bunch of bowing and scraping and said a bunch of weird shit for no reason."

Edgar's eyes were wide. "What."

"I call it payback."

"You..." He sputtered. Locke could see the gears turning as he thought back over a day's worth of obsequious BS. A deep scarlet flush spread gradually up from his collar and over his face. "You little..."

"Yes?"

For another few seconds Edgar just stared at him, mortified. That was a new look, and one Locke wouldn't object to seeing more of. Then the tension snapped, and he slumped forward, his shoulders shaking with laughter. "You bastard. Well played." He scrubbed a hand over his face and sat up straight again. His fingers had left a smudge of some nondescript machinery grime over one cheekbone. Locke was freshly relieved that the mustache was gone — at times like this he was almost bearable to look at.

"For the record, you're not supposed to glue stuff on that firmly. It shouldn't be leaving a mark like that." Locke pointed.

"A mark? Did it really...?" He probed at the spot, and then winced. "Ah. Yeah, still stings."

"Dumbass."

"I admit, this is a blow. Here I thought you were staring at me because I'm handsome."

Locke scoffed. "Not on your life."

Edgar heaved a theatrical sigh. "Oh, well. I guess I'll live. That said" — he leaned forward again — "please tell me more about fake mustache protocol. You sound like you speak from experience."

"Maybe I do, maybe I don't, but I am not enabling any more of your bullshit. You try this again, you deserve whatever happens to you."


	3. Chapter 3

Back at the inn Edgar spent a full forty-five minutes in the shower, and another twenty minutes in there doing who knew what, and finally emerged draped in an ornately patterned robe, wet hair fanned out over his shoulders. "I never get to do that at home," he said with a happy sigh, and sagged into the chair by the writing desk.

Where the lapels of the robe parted, a clean white shirt showed underneath. And so what? Locke thought. What had he expected instead, an unhindered view of the royal collarbone? Why would that matter? "You're gonna drip on everything," he said.

"Get me a towel? I'm too comfortable to get up."

"Y'know what," said Locke, "I changed my mind. You can go back to groveling, I liked that guy better." Though he was already up and heading out into the hall. After a long day of nothing but sitting around in various locations, he wanted to be moving around.

Edgar called after him, "That guy had a mustache, remember."

Locke grabbed one of the inn's thick gray towels from the shelf — though the place had seen better days, the proprietor still went all out on linens, which you had to respect — and, returning to their room, dropped it on Edgar's head. "Now I don't have to look at you. Problem solved."

Edgar flailed in alarm and clawed the towel off his face. Once clear, he adopted an attitude of sudden stony dignity, folded the towel neatly, and draped it over the seat back behind him. "Before I get too seriously into loafing around, is there anything else on today's docket?"

"Nah. Dinner, maybe. Then in the morning I'm off again. You got transportation back home?"

"Yes," said Edgar, "at the civilized hour of eleven, thank you very much."

"You're supposed to clear out of this room by ten."

"Well, I no longer believe a word you tell me, but if that's the case, I'll have a private word with the proprietress and pull out one of these." And he smiled. That same radiant, good-humored, extremely stupid smile he'd used that first day, before Locke had known who he was. "I'm sorry for any inconvenience, but the room was so homey I couldn't make myself leave any sooner. Are you aware you have exquisite taste in rugs? All the furnishings are so perfectly balanced —"

"Gross. Does that even work on anyone?"

Edgar frowned, giving Locke a dismissive once-over. "Well. I'd try it on you, but I can't think of anything to compliment. Did I hear you say something about dinner?"

"Not so fast."

"It occurs to me I haven't eaten since yesterday. But if you want me to wait until you have a good comeback, sure. Another hour can't hurt."

"Wait, you haven't —" He thought back. There hadn't been anything to eat at the railyard, even if anyone had been in the mood. And yeah, Edgar hadn't been awake enough for breakfast. "Dipshit. Okay, I'll go see what the innkeep's cooking tonight. You sit tight."

"Well, of course. Can't have me dripping on things, can we." He stretched his legs out and folded his arms behind his head, the picture of laziness. Fucker. He could at least say "thanks."

But it probably was better if Edgar didn't get to talk to the proprietor anyway. He'd just make a pass at her and make everything weird.

So Locke went down the hall into the kitchen, and picked her brain for local gossip for a bit. The fancy-britches tea merchant her sister-in-law kept house for had died heirless and a bunch of his old loot was going to auction — probably nothing Locke wanted, but fuck knew, weird stuff turned up sometimes. Couple local boys had gotten in a duel last month, as if dueling was still a thing people did, and almost killed each other, after which they'd had to be housed together while their wounds were being treated, and now they were best friends and going into business together, go figure. Almanac calling for a good year for onions and a bad year for lettuces, not that she, the innkeeper, could get much to grow in her back garden before somebody trampled it.

Then he remembered he'd kinda left Edgar to starve, so he grabbed the obvious segue. "Never woulda thought you had trouble with that. Those vegetables look amazing," he said, waving toward a simmering stockpot.

"'Cause I didn't grow 'em," she said, and then grinned and elbowed him. "You and your friend want soup? There's bread, too."

It was only when Locke returned with the heavily laden tray that he remembered there was no table other than that writing desk, wedged in the corner of the room. Edgar already had the long side. Locke set the food down and dragged a chair up to the short side of the desk. Kind of a cramped setup. He'd been here ten seconds and Edgar's knee had already jogged his twice.

Oh, well. He'd eaten in weirder places. He'd had worse people invading his personal space.

"Thanks," said Edgar, belatedly.

"Yeah, sure. Go to town." Locke took his own advice, starting in on the soup. "But what's this not eating all day BS? That better not be a habit." Locke had had some lean years. Shit sucked. If he had Edgar's money, he'd be eating nine or ten meals a day. If you could afford it, why wouldn't you?

"No, no," Edgar said quickly, "don't worry. Not anymore." Wait — anymore? He shook his head, smiling crookedly. "I used to be such an embarrassment. For the first couple years after Dad died, I was so suspicious of any proper sit-down meal. I just didn't do 'em. If I ate at all, it was standing up in my workroom." He shrugged. All casual. Like he was discussing some adolescent foolishness on the order of, _Oh, you know, that time I broke a window and blamed the dog._ "I pity the members of the court who had to cover for me. Lucky for everyone I outgrew that." He was casually tearing a piece of bread into cubes. His hands were steady as ever, but there was something mindless about the motion. "Poisoning is an occupational hazard like any other. Besides, if someone really wanted me out of the way, they wouldn't bother with the food. For me, the quickest path would be to spike the coffee with ergot or something." He frowned. "Or, wait, no. Ergot was the grain one. I guess that's just as well — nasty way to go. But there was _some_ kind of toxic mold, I'm pretty sure..."

"Edgar. What the fuck."

"Oh, don't mind me. I did a lot of research on this at one point. I don't recommend it, for the record. Just made me paranoid." Locke wanted to cut him off before he said anything else horrifying, but couldn't find words. "At one point I was losing so much sleep thinking about poison aerosols, I ended up building something myself just to get the idea out of my head. But I learned a lot from that one, so it wasn't a total waste. Kind of a neat project, thinking back. I had to build a fume hood, too, though I'm not sure I'll need it again." Abruptly he noticed what he was doing to the bread, dumped the improvised croutons into his bowl, and started eating.

Locke set his spoon down with a clink. He was a lot less hungry than he'd been five minutes ago. Edgar carried on, unperturbed.

But was he really? Locke remembered last fall. Edgar had had to go to that party with Gestahl, and beforehand he'd taken Locke up on the ramparts and said _By the way, here's what to do if I die,_ and the staff said he'd been weird when he came home, and he'd stayed weird for over a week. He'd been wandering around shitfaced during the dinner hour. He'd been —

He must've been terrified.

"Uh," said Locke. "Hey." Edgar looked his way, expectant. "Are you... okay?"

No change in expression. "Sure. Why do you ask?"

Locke bristled. "Are you shitting me?"

"Not at all." In the face of Locke's indignant disbelief, he looked away, smiling faintly. There was no distance to stare into — opposite him was a wall with a painting of some mountains — so he stared off into the painting of mountains. "Someone in my position can't afford to be precious about that stuff. The kingdom needs more."

Locke kept staring. Did Figaro know what they had in Edgar? Years ago when some dumb teenage fancy boy had taken the throne, had they expected a mess, or a brat, or a figurehead — or had they understood what kind of king they were getting?

Edgar elbowed him. "It's good soup. Try some."

Oh, yeah. Right. Eating. It was a decent enough soup, sure. Now, try not to think about poison, or how much Edgar, in those shitty early days of his reign, could probably have used a fucking hug. Locke racked his brain for some more normal topic of conversation. "So — is that the weirdest machine you've ever made? The aerosol thing. Or is there anything crazier?"

"Ooh. Excellent question." His eyes glinted. "Define 'weird' as it applies here."

"I dunno. Wacky and impractical?"

Apparently that was the right thing to say. Edgar tented his fingers, grinning deviously. "Okay, how much do you know about acoustics?"

"I've heard of them," said Locke, affecting a thoughtful squint. It was a look meant to say, I definitely know at least four things, just gimme a minute.

"Well, I knew surprisingly little about the field until recently." (Only Edgar would look at some nerd shit and be surprised he didn't already know it.) "So I decided to rectify that the best way I know how. Actually — do you mind?"

"Mind what," Locke started to say, but Edgar had already grabbed a pencil and paper from his bag, and carefully moved the food aside. "Hey, I wasn't done —"

But Edgar was already drawing a bunch of squiggly lines and saying, "It turns out, in a uniform medium, and holding temperature constant, sound waves propagate in a predictable manner." And then he was drawing different stuff, and saying all this science stuff that had nothing to do with Locke's original question. But he looked happy, and he wasn't talking about his dead-parents baggage anymore. Every so often he would gesture a little too broadly and his arm would jog Locke's, or they'd bump shoulders, but Locke could tolerate that much. It was only when he thought of the soup getting cold that he bothered to reclaim his bowl and scoot a few inches away.

Now Edgar was talking about soldering something. This must be the part where it stopped being a random science lecture and started being a machine. And now it was, "My ears didn't stop ringing for three days," with an expression indicating that was what he'd wanted to happen. How hadn't this dipshit died yet? "But I made some adjustments to the bell. I can't totally shield the user from the vibrations, so I can't totally say it's unidirectional —"

"So let me get this straight," said Locke, sopping up the last of the stew with a piece of bread. "It's loud. And it doesn't do anything else. You just built a loud thing."

"Yes, admirably put. I built a loud thing." He looked down at the drawings in front of him and blinked, as if surprised at the scale they'd reached. "And I'm very proud of myself, if you couldn't tell."

Locke snorted. "I knew that a year ago. By the way? Finish your fucking dinner."

"What? It's your fault for distracting me. Asking me about my work is the most counterproductive thing you could've done." He crumpled his diagram up and pitched it into the fireplace. And finished his fucking dinner. "Do you plan to scowl at me like that the whole time? I am an adult, you know. You'd be amazed, the things I've accomplished without your supervision."

"Given the dumb shit you get up to when I _am_ supervising, yeah, I'll believe that when I see it." Locke picked up the empty bowls and loaded them back onto the tray. "I'm assuming you expect me to take these back, since I do all the work around here."

Edgar blinked at him guilelessly. "Well, I'd do it myself, but I can't. Our hostess won't recognize me divested of my brilliant disguise. If she mistakes me for an intruder and clobbers me with a saucepan and I die on the spot, you'll have a lot of explaining to do."

"Aw, c'mon. I'm sure you take more killing than that."

"Thank you for the vote of confidence." Locke held the tray out toward him. "I'll need three hours to get fully dressed again, but if you're willing to wait, just leave it there."

Locke snorted. "I'm surprised you can get dressed at all without your army of servants."

Edgar nodded gravely. "That's why it takes me three hours. I don't know how to do up all the laces. But everyone's proud of my progress. Someday I may even be trusted to cut my own nails."

Locke's gaze automatically fell on Edgar's hands. The fingernails were cut short and blunt, except one thumbnail that looked recently torn. There was a partially healed scrape across the back of his left hand. He took pains to keep clean and presentable, but the man did his own dirty work.

Unless he thought it'd be funnier not to. And it wasn't even like this was a huge burden, but it was the principle of the thing. Locke made a point of sighing as he got up, and a bigger point of struggling to get the door open while carrying the tray, and Edgar just stared at him with an unchanging expression of mild interest. Ass.

When he returned, Edgar was standing before the fireplace, his back to the door. "You moved three whole feet while I was gone," Locke said. "Be careful your new active lifestyle doesn't wear you out."

Edgar looked back over his shoulder. The firelight picked over his face and set a gleaming aura around his hair. No human being had a right to be so… _shiny._

"You didn't realize I'm nocturnal?" Edgar was saying. "In fact it's a common strategy in desert fauna."

"Since when are you fauna?"

"Oh, no. Oh, Locke. Stop, your ignorance is just heartbreaking." He turned the rest of the way around. "My point is, today was just a prelude. Now I'm awake."

"What, and now you expect me to entertain you?"

"I never said that, but now I'm curious about your plans."

Locke made a show of mulling them over. "Well, you said it took you three hours to get dressed, so a pubcrawl is out. All the bars'll be closed by the time we get there."

"Too bad," said Edgar. "Another time?" Was that — a note of genuine hope in his voice? Man, sometimes he just looked like a big dumb kid. (Very big, and very dumb.)

"I mean, if you can give your whole citizenry the slip once, why _not_ another time?"

Edgar frowned in thought. "Well, I wouldn't want to make a habit of it. Being drunk on power and third-rate beer at the same time — one shudders to contemplate the morning after."

"You think I'd take you somewhere third-rate? You? My best friend?" Locke went to stand next to him and dropped a hand heavily on his shoulder. "'Cause it's gotta be fifth-rate or worse. If you're slumming it with me, I'm not letting you half-ass it. We're gonna be drinking stuff one step up from drain cleaner, and so help me, you're gonna like it." Edgar laughed. "I'm serious. Won't hurt me any. I have no class. I'll eat off a manhole cover. Don't even try me, I'll drink mud and sleep in a rotten stump."

"My goodness. How can I resist?"

Jokes aside, it occurred to Locke that this might, actually, be great. Edgar outside the castle was more interesting — something like a real person. And how much better, if they got a chance to hang out when lives weren't at stake? What would that be like, being out and about as a couple of normal dumbasses and not a king and a spy?

Edgar said, "Any idea where you'll be in September?"

"That's a bit..."

"It's a ways off, yes. But I think somewhere in that timeframe I could disappear for a good week." He held up a hand to forestall comment. "I got here on such short notice because you said it was urgent. And when it's urgent, I promise, I'll always try to respond this quickly. But it takes a certain amount of contrivance. If we're only going to be gadding about making nuisances of ourselves, I'd rather wait for an opportunity than further abuse everyone's goodwill."

That almost made sense. Almost. "But you're totally fine abusing my goodwill."

Edgar was all smiles. "What are friends for?"

Locke rolled his eyes. "Whatever. September, huh. It's hard to plan that far ahead in my line of work."

"I understand. Given how rapidly the situation is changing" — he stopped. For a second his face was wiped clean of all expression, and something dark passed behind his eyes. He didn't say it, even in jest, but it came into Locke's head all the same, and he suppressed a shudder. _Who knows? We could be dead by then._

"Well," Locke said briskly, "I'm still planning to come by in a couple weeks as scheduled. We can hammer out the details then. Throw darts at your wall calendar, or whatever."

"I look forward to it." Edgar turned back toward the fire.

Locke frowned. "What about tonight, though? We still haven't settled that question." He elbowed Edgar in the side. "You just gonna stare at this until your eyes dry out?"

"I wanted to be sure everything burned. I wouldn't want the innkeeper to have any questions." He prodded the embers with a poker, then, satisfied, returned it to its stand. "Or, if anyone else should have questions, I wouldn't want her to have answers."

It took Locke a second to remember. "What, your weird nerd drawings? Could they give us away?"

"There's no harm making certain. Though I'll grant you the chance is pretty remote."

You could've taken them with you, Locke thought, and then, ridiculously, Or you could've given them to me. As if he'd have had any idea what to do with them? What a weird damn thing to get sentimental about. Instead he said, "I used to know a guy who'd get really high and stare at open flames and say he saw the future."

"Hmm. Are you suggesting we get into divination?"

He shrugged. "I've had worse ideas. I mean, we're basically having a sleepover, right, so why not do dumb sleepover shit?"

Edgar looked at him sidelong. "A category that includes...?"

"Let's see." Locke tapped a finger against his chin, thinking. Long damn time since he'd done anything that normal. "Already covered fortune-telling, so... arm wrestling. Vandalism."

"Nix that. The innkeeper doesn't deserve it."

"Agreed. What else... Petty gossip. Penny-ante poker? Nah, there's only two of us. Knife tricks. Cheese on toast. Or if you're really bored, we could always just make out."

Edgar slowly turned to face him, eyebrows raised almost to his hairline.

Locke hadn't known he was gonna say that until he heard the words, but — hey, why not? "I mean, what the hell? I wouldn't mind. You're not ugly."

Edgar laughed, incredulous. "Oh, yes. Right. _I'm_ not ugly, that was the pivotal question. How magnanimous of you, Locke Cole from nowhere in particular, to think of throwing your favor away on me."

"Fine, wiseass. Forget it. I gave you, what, six other options?"

"No, no." He was grinning hard enough to set a personal record for smugness. And his previous record had been pretty fucking smug. "I'm curious about this one."

"What, like you don't know how it's done?" Locke folded his arms and stood back, smirking. "Or don't you? Maybe you just skip right to the main event? Tsk, tsk. That'd explain why you have so few repeat customers."

Edgar drew himself up snootily. "Delicacy and tact forbid my issuing the full rebuttal that deserves. Such disclosures are not mine to make. That aside" — his voice sank low — "let's pretend you believe what you just said. Pretend you exist in a world where it's remotely credible that I'm not good at what I do."

What the fuck was that voice? "Modest, aren't ya?" said Locke, with more effort than a half-ass quip was supposed to take.

Edgar went on in the same measured, thoughtful tone: "What does it say about you that, in this outlandish fantasy universe, you nonetheless made an advance on me? It smacks of a certain... oh, what's the word..."

"Fuck off."

"'Desperation?'"

Locke bristled. "It wasn't an 'advance.' I was joking. Get over yourself."

Edgar looked confused, and almost — but Locke must be imagining this part — disappointed? "Sorry," he said, sounding normal again. "I misunderstood." Then he shook his head. "No harm done, I hope. What else was on the list again? Snack food? General mischief?"

He let it go so easy.

And wasn't that what you wanted if you were just gonna fool around? Someone who'd be that cool about it. No expectations, no judgment. No harm done. You could trust him, and he wouldn't go making it all weird.

Locke said, with studied casualness, "Just wondering, if it _had_ been an advance —"

"Then I'd make fun of you. As you've just seen."

"Oh. Right."

"But it doesn't mean I'm opposed." He propped one elbow on the fireplace lintel and shot Locke a wry look. "Is that lukewarm enough for you? That's what we're doing today, right, damning with faint praise? Given the choice between an intimate embrace with some impertinent treasure hunter and falling down a flight of stairs, I marginally prefer the former."

"You wanna go find some stairs, smart guy? We can test this scientifically."

"We could. But it'd be hard to run repeat trials. I assume any injury is compounded over time, which would tend to affect the outcome of later runs."

"What injury? From the stairs?"

"I was thinking more from this." Edgar reached over, and scraped a fingernail over the two (maybe three?) days' worth of stubble on Locke's jaw. "That's going to burn," he said, with an air of scholarly detachment.

Holy shit. Locke suppressed a shiver, whether at that faintest ghost of a touch, or the much closer contact those words suggested. _That's going to burn._ Great. Cool. Any preference where?

Edgar drew back, looking thoughtful. "So. Not a joke, then."

"Sure it was," said Locke, not as evenly as he would've liked to. "So's your face. And so's this." And he grabbed a fistful of expensive bathrobe and fucking went for it.

Edgar was taller than him. He hadn't accounted for that, in the maybe twenty seconds he'd been imagining how this would go down. He wasn't used to being the short one, and had a second of panic wondering if this was gonna fuck up his whole game. But — no, why worry about it that much? The whole point was not to worry. The hell was Edgar gonna judge him for? _Edgar,_ for fuck's sake. This didn't have to be a big deal. They were chest to chest and Edgar's breath was hot in his mouth, but like... casually.

He wanted to be closer. He let go of Edgar's lapels and threw his arm over Edgar's shoulder, pulling him in tighter, shoving up against him with an urgency that should've been embarrassing — but whatever. Edgar hardly moved — except with one knuckle under Locke's jaw he gently adjusted the angle where their lips met, and then as he lowered his hand he let his fingertips graze Locke's throat, a touch so light it almost never happened, so light Locke was going to feel it for days.

And then —

And then he got serious. Locke had seen this change before, but he'd never gotten to _feel_ it, and now Edgar's tongue was tracing the contours of his mouth with the most exquisite care. With the same unhurried deliberation Edgar ran one hand down Locke's side and lingered a while, stroking his hipbone, before easing that arm around Locke's waist and under his shirt. His hand, warm and capable and more callused than you'd expect, came to rest snug against the small of Locke's back.

Locke shuddered and leaned harder into Edgar and buried his free hand in that sun-colored mane up to the second knuckle. Toward the back of Edgar's skull it was still damp from the shower, but it was _exactly_ as soft as he'd wanted to believe. Except for this slight coarsening in front of his ear where it stopped just short of shading into sideburns — where had he found time for a shave this smooth while traveling? Or maybe he was a naturally glossy person. Maybe somewhere in his ancestry there was a pane of window glass. Whatever. Didn't matter. Locke slid his hand a little further down and took Edgar's earlobe between his thumb and forefinger, and felt Edgar draw in a sharp breath. He smirked into the kiss. _Gotcha._ He kept toying with it, and pressed the advantage by sliding his knee in between Edgar's legs. Closer. He still wanted to be closer. He wanted every inch of Edgar's body against every inch of his, and he had no memory of not wanting it. Edgar — stubborn bastard — was still taking his time. But for all that outward calm — the methodical exploration of the kiss, the firm pressure of his hands — Locke could feel Edgar's pulse thundering to match his own.

If only this idiot would shut up more often, and do more of this instead, he'd be basically irresistible. And in one sense that wasn't even surprising. Locke had seen what he did with machines — the way he did anything that mattered to him. This same veiled intensity. This same meticulous attention.

Wait, fuck. Did that mean _this_ mattered?

It wasn't supposed to. It was supposed to be —

But if it wasn't, then —

Edgar broke the kiss. "Everything okay?"

Locke pushed him away, and stumbled back until the bed caught him in the knees and he fell back onto it, sitting down hard.

"Locke, what's wrong?"

Locke shook his head mutely. Getting your rocks off was one thing, but — if that wasn't all this was, then — "Rachel," he choked, and put his head in his hands.

"Oh." Edgar swallowed audibly. "I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking."

Locke's voice came out higher and sharper than he wanted: "Do you ever? Or do you just go wherever your dick leads you?" 

No reply.

Locke looked up again, and wished he hadn't. Edgar's eyes were wide and his mouth hanging open in shocked betrayal. He said, "I —" And stopped. Thought about it. Started again. "Admittedly, I —"

"Shit. Shit shit shit, Edgar, I'm sorry —"

"No, hang on, I've almost got it." He held up a finger and drew in a breath with his eyes closed, composing himself. He opened them and smirked, almost convincingly, and said, "Admittedly, I never leave home without it."

It felt like swallowing splinters. "I didn't mean — no. I did, but I was — I was talking to me —"

Edgar softened, his shoulders slumping. "Locke, it's okay. You're... bereaved. I understand. It's fine."

"No." Locke scrubbed his hands over his face and stared at the wall, because that was the place it hurt the least to look. "It's not." He was shaky and sweating and, worst of all, his stupid fucking dick hadn't yet figured out that the moment was over. What? he thought, scathingly, You wanted it that badly? Then how did you not notice until now? How the fuck did you not figure it out?

The odd hookup was fine, he'd told himself. It wasn't disloyal. He had told himself this because in the first couple months after Rachel died he'd stuck his tongue in a lot of different mouths and he had to rationalize it somehow. The odd hookup was fine, as long as he didn't forget that she was the love of his life, and the only one who really counted. And he'd stopped doing even that, when he'd realized it didn't help.

This, specifically, was not fine. Because if he didn't love Edgar now, he was more than halfway there. And Edgar — okay, sure, he was good at what he did, but how far did that get you on its own? Hadn't it felt for a second like he meant it? Hadn't Locke, like an idiot, like a traitor, like a spineless son of a bitch, wanted it to?

Edgar sat down on the other bed facing him, a little off to the side, and they stared past each other.

"I'm sorry," Locke said again.

"Don't beat yourself up about it. You couldn't have known until you tried."

The fuck did he know about it? Where did he get off trying to be so _reasonable?_ "You're the king of fucking Figaro. Have a little pride. What does it matter to you if I —" He heard what he was saying, and choked on it. The King of Figaro. He had just made a move on a reigning monarch, and probably burned an important alliance to the ground.

"Not out here, I'm not," said Edgar. "I'm here as a machinist." He leaned forward. Locke could feel that steady gaze on him again, and didn't meet it. "On your recommendation. As a personal friend." A measured pause. Did he have to be so oratorical about everything? "If we're honest, an increasingly concerned personal friend."

Locke owed him better than this. There was no fixing what he'd done to Rachel, but this, at least, he had to make an accounting for. 

And so, haltingly, he told him. Way more than he'd ever planned to, but then, he'd never planned to tell anyone anything. The same guilt and shame that had stopped his mouth all this time were now squeezing at him to spill everything.

So he spilled. Everything.

He told Edgar how he'd carried her to her parents' home, not knowing if she'd ever wake up. How the door slammed in his face as they took her in. He told him about the waiting, all the goddamn waiting, pacing in the flower garden under her window because it was the closest they'd let him get to her bedside. And he told how, when she woke, he begged and pleaded his way past her mom and dad, I have to see her, I have to make this right, Rachel will back me up —

But she couldn't. And the door closed forever, until the Empire battered it down and he lost her again. And he couldn't lose her again. And he took her to that old man's basement workroom and wondered if the feeling of her limp and heavy in his arms was going to be their only legacy. He felt like he'd been carrying her forever, he couldn't remember her smile or — there was some gesture of hers, something she'd done with her hands, that had always gotten to him, and it was gone now. It had been cut out of the world and he didn't know how to put it back.

"She's still there," he said. "And I have to save her this time. That's all there is to it." He was surprised to find that his eyes were dry. Part of him was impressed he'd kept his shit together, and another part thought, The fuck is wrong with you? You don't even miss her that much? Do you even love her?

There was a long silence. Finally Edgar said, "Um, just to be clear — she _is_ dead, correct?"

"He called it 'suspended animation.'"

"Right, right, but — when you found her, was she —" Locke stared at him bleakly. "Look, I'm not trying to be insensitive, but as I understand it there's a significant difference between true resurrection and just, say, waking someone up from a coma. Not that even the latter is easy! But the former — what's your plan? What evidence do you have —"

"I have a couple leads," said Locke. "There's — supposed to be this rock."

Out loud it sounded stupid. For one seething instant he hated himself for pinning his hopes to something so feeble, and hated Edgar for making him hear it.

"Of course there are rumors," said Edgar. "Every person alive has a ghost they want to talk to. Of course we have stories about cheating death, but that doesn't mean —"

"We're entering a new Age of Magic. For all the heinous shit Gestahl is doing, maybe I can get some good out of it."

"Yeah. Okay. Just so you know, the previous Age of Magic called this practice necromancy, and they didn't have great things to say about it, on the whole." He shook his head. "Living systems are a little too complex for me, so take this with a grain of salt, but — I don't think you can just knock the rust off and expect everything to work again."

"Edgar. I'm not asking for troubleshooting. I'm telling you how it is. The old man said there was a way to call her spirit back, and I'm gonna find it. End of story. I owe it to her. I wasn't — I should've been there."

This silence was even longer. Then, "Forgive me. Bad habit. This is… a lot to absorb."

"You think I'm crazy."

"No," said Edgar, wide-eyed, in a tone that had more than a little "yes" in it. "Look — if you want, I'll give you full access to the castle library. We've got a good store of old records — there may be leads there. I suggest caution about letting anyone see what you're researching, but —"

"Thanks, but no." Locke looked away. If he didn't look, he could pretend the offer was legitimate, and that Edgar actually thought his books would help. He could pretend it was that, instead of pity.

Or fear. Maybe when you learned this much fucked-up shit about someone you'd trusted, you just offered whatever you thought would keep them occupied so they wouldn't fuck up more shit on your watch. And while they were distracted, you quietly cut ties.

"So that's my story," he said, as he stood up. This was the end. "I'm gonna go get some air."

"I appreciate your candor," said Edgar. "That can't have been easy." Locke shrugged one shoulder. "We don't need to discuss this any further if you don't want to." Which "this?" Rachel? Necromancy? The kiss? "If you do, you know where I'll be."

He went out. There was a scraggly, unkempt little arbor to one side of the inn, and he barely made it there before he was shaking too hard to keep walking. What the hell had he just done? Well, obviously, aside from betraying Rachel, making selfish use of a good man, and torching his most significant friendship, all in about twelve minutes. Real efficient. Nice fucking job.

He could see just a sliver of the night sky from this bench — but small as it was, it was soft and full of stars. Rachel loved the night sky, and he'd forgotten that until right now. And she couldn't see those stars. And he was bound to forget more.

He knew he couldn't travel in this state, and the room was already paid for. He went back in. Eventually.

Edgar was sitting at the desk writing something, but looked up when Locke entered. "You okay?"

What do you think, genius? "What are you doing?"

He waved at the documents spread out before him. "Catching up on paperwork. I can leave the kingdom for a few days, but the kingdom doesn't leave me."

Locke shook his head. "You brought royal business with you? Edgar, that's dangerous. We're trying to be sneaky here."

"You know what else is dangerous? Signing stuff I don't understand." Then he looked grave. "Seriously. Will you be all right?"

Locke stared at him. He wasn't asking just for the sake of it. That wasn't how he operated. He wasn't expecting assurances that everything was fine. He was asking, Can I fix it?

But people weren't machines.

"I shouldn't have insulted you like that earlier," Locke blurted out. As if he hadn't done a lot worse. "I'm sorry."

"Not to worry," said Edgar, looking down to scribble a note on the document before him. His tone was airy; any window for seriousness had closed. "As you've noted in the past, I barely even have feelings." Locke winced. Edgar looked up again. "Oh. Was that mean of me? I think that might've been mean. Well, case in point, I guess. Are you going to bed? I can turn the light off."

"Nah, don't let me stop you. I can sleep with it on." As he pulled off his shoes and got into bed, he tried not to notice Edgar watching him, and he tried not to notice the slowness of his own movements or how his joints hurt like he was a thousand years old. He lay down and turned his back on the desk, and the light where his friend was still working.

He thought about saying, "Don't stay up too late," but he didn't know if he was allowed to care that much anymore. He'd probably forfeited that right. Edgar didn't need looking after anyway.

* * *

He wouldn't go back to Figaro until they made him. That simple. When there was official business, he'd pay the castle a visit, and otherwise he wouldn't. That was what he was supposed to be doing anyway. His stupid decisions shouldn't jeopardize the relationship between the Returners and _the king of an allied nation_ (what the fuck had he been thinking), but the best he could do now was try to keep shit professional. Impersonal.

He spent a few months in Maranda and practiced not thinking about Edgar's hands.


	4. Chapter 4

_Haven't heard from you in a while. Is anything amiss? I understand, of course, that the demands on your time are many, and that discretion is paramount. I don't mean to add to your burdens by demanding a reply; rather, I'm writing to assure you that I stand ready as always to help out in any way I can. If the usual courier is unavailable, I'll happily speak with any person you see fit to send me, provided they have your password._

_That said, if he is available — don't tell him this, but I'm starting to feel nostalgic for the days he would come in through the window and insult me in my own home. Tell me something, did you suggest that approach or is it his own invention?_

_And if you have the time, one thing more: is he all right?_

* * *

Apparently it had gone down like this: someone had started pounding on Arvis's door late one night. He'd taken a discreet look out the window and seen only a caped figure, hammering away with slowly diminishing strength. The figure had taken a step back from the doorframe and peered upward — and Arvis was sure he couldn't have been seen, because it was dark inside, and yet — the figure had gone back to knocking on the door, saying loudly, in a foreign accent, "Help me! I've just been mugged and I have nowhere to go, please let me in!"

It could've been a trap, but then again, people did get mugged, and Arvis's sympathies weren't widely known. So he'd armed himself with a poker and opened the door.

The figure had stepped inside, composedly kicked the door shut behind him, and straightened, throwing back his hood.

("Was it the king?" said Locke. "You don't have to say anything. Just nod.")

The stranger, who definitely bore no resemblance to any of the faces on any currently circulating coinage, had spread his hands to show he was unarmed and said, "I can't stay long. We'll pretend you've given me directions to the inn and enough money for a night's stay — that would take, what, five minutes? Great. I have a message for our mutual friend." With ostentatious care he had reached into his cloak and pulled out a note. "Hold onto this until he's back in town, would you? I'll wait a few minutes and see myself out."

And that was the note Locke now held. "Yeah," he said, "this was for Banon."

"Oh." Arvis's brows drew together. "But he said 'mutual friend' — I didn't think he and Banon had even met. And the two of you have been thick as — pardon the expression — thick as thieves."

"That'd be the logical assumption, yeah. Bastard just tried to get too clever again."

"Is this a security problem?" said Arvis.

"Nah, you're fine." And then Locke thought about it, and the longer he thought about it, the angrier he got. "Well. It's only a problem insofar as I'm gonna kill that guy."

* * *

Locke stormed through the halls of the castle, blowing off the greetings of the staff members who recognized him, and threw open the door to the study. "You high-handed son of a bitch. What gives you the right?"

Edgar pushed back from the desk and stood up. "Mr. Cole. If you ever say anything about my mother again, you will not enjoy the repercussions. That said" — he stopped, sighed, and then smiled faintly — "welcome back."

Locke slugged him in the jaw.

Edgar rocked back, his eyes wide with surprise and pain. Then he shrugged and said, "Okay," and jabbed at Locke's throat. He was too slow; Locke hopped back out of range. And closed again, swinging for the side of Edgar's head. Edgar just barely got his left up in time to block the blow. He grappled both of Locke's arms and started forcing him back.

Locke kicked the inside of Edgar's right knee. He gasped, but didn't go down. So Locke took aim and did it again. Edgar's leg started to fold. His grip loosened. Locke jerked free and slammed a fist into his midsection. He crumpled into a kneel.

"That's all?" Locke snarled. Edgar came up fast and tackled him, and Locke's vision grayed out for an instant and then they were wrestling on the floor. He scrabbled on the rug until he got his feet under him, and with a violent surge, rolled them both over. Edgar ducked his head under Locke's arm and tried to twist free. Locke snatched at his collar. He twisted again and drove his shoulder up into Locke's chest. Locke wheezed and sagged forward, his weight bearing them both down. Edgar put a hand against the side of Locke's neck and shoved. Locke started to lose balance. Edgar had almost gotten out from underneath. _Fuck_ that. Locke dug a thumb into Edgar's wrist until he let go, and centered himself over him again, and drew his arm back for another punch.

Edgar said, "Watch out for the —" right as Locke's elbow clipped the desk and his whole forearm went numb. Fuck. He couldn't pin this guy one-handed. He braced himself for —

Edgar wasn't getting up. Between gasps for breath he said, mildly, "Well, my friend. It's safe to say we are not wrestlers."

The room felt small now. The sound of labored breathing seemed to fill it wall to wall. "You wanna call the guards?" said Locke. It was over.

Edgar stared at the ceiling. "I trust you." He sighed. "And I probably needed the wake-up call. What if I get invited on another boat?"

"They're done with boats."

He did not meet Locke's eyes. "Metaphorically speaking."

Locke abruptly realized that he was sitting on top of Edgar, staring down as he lay there with a split lip and his hair all mussed and his pulse visible in his throat, and since they weren't fighting anymore, there was no good reason for this.

Unfortunately, the bad reason was pretty fucking compelling. Locke dragged in a breath, and — it was too much to hope that Edgar hadn't noticed how it shook. Dammit. He got up, stiffly cautious, and retreated a safe distance. Back to the edge of the room before he lost the will to move away. He was too tired to stay as pissed off as he should be, and fuck knew why, but he had never stopped wanting to kiss this idiot and touch his hair and feel those arms around him again, and — Locke hadn't had enough sex with dudes to have a clear preference who did what to whom, but he bet he could at least figure out how to suck a dick. He'd had it done to him enough times —

_You can't think about Rachel that way._

Edgar climbed to his feet, slightly favoring his right leg. Locke stood motionless and silent and felt his eyes going unfocused.

Edgar said, "Do you think she wants you to suffer?"

Startled, Locke snapped, "What the hell do you know?"

"You get that look when you're thinking about her." He held up a placating hand. "No judgment. I'm just wondering. If you wake her up again and tell her you were miserable this whole time, does that do her any good? Will that make her happy?" Locke didn't answer. "You'd know better than I would, obviously. Maybe she's the vengeful type. Maybe she'd expect penance. It's none of my business if so, but… as a friend, I would want better for you."

"Better like _you?_"

"Ha. No. I can't offer you anything. We might be a fun diversion, but you wouldn't like the constraints."

Did that mean he'd actually thought about it?

It didn't matter. "She wasn't — she isn't —" He was never sure which one to use, wavering between "it's your fault she's gone" and "don't you dare give up on her," and whichever one he picked on any given day he would kick himself for it. "She was never like that. She's perfect."

"All due respect," Edgar said, "but I doubt that." Locke considered hitting him again. "If someone was perfect, how would you know what to love?"

She had a chipped eyetooth and her handwriting was so awful they'd had to give up exchanging love notes on day three. She talked quietly but then got mad if you didn't hear her; if you asked her to repeat herself she'd just huff and say "never _mind_" in the most passive-aggressive way, like, screw you for wanting to hang on her every word if you didn't have the hearing of a bat. He adored her. He had from the start.

"I don't want to stop missing her. I don't want to lose sight of — if I bring her back and she doesn't want me anymore, that's fine, I know I fucked up, I'd deserve it — but it's her decision."

"So you've pinned your hopes on the chance that a dead woman will set you free."

"No. All I'm hoping for is — that I get to fix this. Put everything back where it should be. That'd be enough."

Silence. And then the sound of four short footsteps, and then Edgar hugged him.

For those first shocked seconds Locke tried not to relax into it too much, but — would she begrudge him this? If there was no one there to hold her, did he have to go without, too? Could he ever be forgiven?

It was too complicated. He was so tired. It had been so long.

With a sensation that wasn't quite guilt but a strong suspicion he'd feel guilty later, he stopped fighting it and sagged into the embrace. Edgar started rubbing his back — but then abruptly froze, as if worried that was too intimate. Too tender for the pretense that they were just normal guys and normal friends and it didn't _mean_ anything if they'd swapped spit that one time. Locke's stomach twisted. Maybe he was right.

"Still friends?" said Edgar, gamely trying to transform the gesture into the more standard chummy back-slap.

Locke swallowed. "Yeah."

"No hard feelings?"

And then Locke remembered why he'd come here in the first place, and raised his head from Edgar's shoulder, and said, "Wait, speak for yourself, asshole. Where do you get off saying shit about me to Banon? Are you trying to undermine me with the Returners, or what?" He shoved Edgar away. "And I'm not a _courier_, what the hell —"

"Hey, hey, simmer down. It's okay." Edgar smiled. "Banon was never going to see that letter."

"But Arvis —"

"Arvis did exactly what I expected him to do. I made it as clear as possible that you were the recipient without actually saying your name."

"Wait, I was supposed to —"

"To think you'd accidentally intercepted a message to Banon, yes. Give Arvis my apologies, by the way. He wasn't in on it."

Locke bristled. "But why would you —"

"It got you here, didn't it? If I'd written to you directly, you wouldn't have showed up." He looked so damn pleased with himself. Locke didn't think — he just fucking decked him.

After a moment he got up again, holding the side of his face, but otherwise unruffled. "Realistically, though, you wouldn't have. Admit it. Was I supposed to say, 'hey, buddy, how's it going? Nothing much happening over here, just pining away?' That wouldn't have worked, right?"

Realistically, no. But Edgar's tone said "let's just get back to wisecracks as soon as possible." So Locke was supposed to blow the question off somehow. He tried to make a snappy retort, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He had nothing. But that had been a joke, right? The pining? Edgar of all people should not know how to pine. All he could think was, "Why'd you go to the trouble?"

An expression crossed Edgar's face that Locke had never seen there before. But it was gone too quickly to identify, and then he turned away and started messing with stuff on his desk. "I think I might be greedy," he said, contemplating a paperweight. A series of shiny metal gears encased in a lump of glass. The pieces looked too clean and sharp to have ever been part of any working machine. "Once something comes into my orbit, I don't like to let go. I just think, 'this is mine now. I'm responsible for this.'" He shook his head ruefully. "It's not a very helpful way to think about people."

Shit, Locke thought, You actually missed me. But Edgar had said as much in that damn letter. It had just come off too oily to be sincere.

This guy didn't have a lot of friends, did he?

Into Locke's uneasy silence, Edgar said airily, "So, are we on for September?"

Locke blinked. "September?"

"If you want to play hard to get, be assured, I can lay the guilt on a lot thicker than that. I have no shame." He set the paperweight down. "The last time we spoke, you threatened me with a pubcrawl. Ring any bells?"

The last time they'd spoken. Was that how they were gonna frame it? Like it had just been a conversation, and then Locke had gone away only by coincidence. And now incidentally he was back. Edgar had said that night that they didn't need to discuss it — why? Did he want to forget it? Whose pride was he trying to spare, Locke's or his own?

And now Edgar looked him dead in the eyes and said nothing. Waiting. With his best unreadable politician face on. Fuck, did he have to do that now? Locke could really have used some idea what was going on in his head for once. But he didn't give away anything.

"Maybe," Locke said, faltering, "maybe it'd be a good idea to... talk. Like — sort this shit out."

"Okay."

"Except I don't know how."

"Me, neither." Still perfectly stone-faced, even though that should've been a pretty big admission. Stupid inscrutable jackass.

Locke forged on. There was nothing else to do. "Should we try?"

"After you," said Edgar, with a smile too tightly controlled to be as mocking as intended.

"No, no," said Locke, biting down a nervous laugh (what the hell was there to laugh about?), "you first, I insist."

"Oh, dear, looks like we're at an impasse." His voice had a weird edge. "Should we flip a coin?"

"Edgar."

"Fine, fine, me first. Noblesse oblige, or whatever." He rolled his eyes. "Let's start with the obvious. I care about you. Okay?"

Was that obvious? Maybe so. Hearing it outright still left a weird ringing in his ears. Even if it was true, and obvious, you didn't say stuff like that, and you didn't make other people — ruling dignitaries! — say it either. He wished he'd never started this. He couldn't just say "never mind" now, not after making Edgar show his throat like that — there wasn't any way out. He'd fucked this up big-time.

He said, "But... as a friend, right?" and thought, Oh good. Now I've fucked it up worse.

Edgar gave him a long, hard look. "I try to be pragmatic," he said. "Nothing else is on the table, so why waste any thought on it? Counterfactuals don't keep the lights on."

Counterfactuals like that water wheel he'd spoken of all those months ago. Like a house by a river, and living there alone in peace, just making stuff for people. Taking machines apart and putting them together. Fixing things.

"You're lying," said Locke.

"Dissembling, maybe. There's a difference."

"Shut up, nerd."

Edgar spread his hands wide. "Fine. I'll shut up. Now it's your turn to tell me something."

Locke's mouth went dry. "Like what?"

"Up to you. You're the one who wanted to talk."

"You brought me here."

"Yeah, but who said anything about talking? I'd be content to leave it at a weird sexually charged fistfight that goes unacknowledged for the rest of our natural lives. You know. Like men."

Locke snorted a laugh. "As you do."

"Really normal stuff."

And all of a sudden —

It just felt stupid to keep being cagey. It didn't make sense to be uncomfortable. This was Edgar. The guy was an idiot; he didn't have room to judge, even if he had the inclination. Locke had busted his lip open and he'd just gotten back up and resumed throwing off dumb quips and plotting and scheming, and — wait, "sexually charged?" Had that been a come-on? Was he doing that _now?_

You kinda had to love him. The total fucking buffoon.

"You're my best friend since Rachel," said Locke. "And that's — I don't like thinking that so much has happened since she died. It kinda fucks me up to think that this is the world after her, and I have to keep living in it." He tried not to think about what he was saying, and tried not to listen to it. If he heard himself, he would want to stop. "If I care about someone else, that's admitting that she's getting farther away. If I let someone else into the place where she used to be, that means she's not there anymore." He scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. "So. That's why I freaked out on you back there. And then I figured you'd be pissed that I was leading you on, so..."

"The thought never crossed my mind."

"Seriously?" said Locke, with a little extra stab of remorse. It'd be easier if Edgar would just get mad.

"Seriously. If anything, I was worried I'd missed some signal that you weren't ready. Maybe I pushed you too hard."

"No," Locke said quickly, "I wanted to. I just didn't — want to want to. If that makes sense."

Edgar nodded, pensive. "Do you _want_ to want to want to? I find that's the critical point."

Locke spent a few seconds trying to sort that out, then gave up. "Okay, if that's a serious question, I'm gonna need you to word it a less stupid way."

Edgar gave him a fleeting grin, but then sobered again. "The thing that's holding you back from pursuing what you want. Do you want it gone, or do you want to keep it?"

For a sudden dizzying moment Locke could see through all the layers of abstraction. Under all the philosophical trappings, the real heart of the question was: Do you, now or sometime in the future, want to bone?

He blinked. Made himself focus. "The thing holding me back is... Rachel. I can't —"

Edgar said, skeptically, "Is it really her, or is it —" Then he caught himself. "Sorry. Given my... uh, totally blatant ulterior motives, I don't have the standing to debate this. I just — if it affects your thinking at all, please know that I'm still your friend regardless. Nothing that's happened has put a dent in my esteem for you." A pause. His expression turned ironic, and he raised a hand to feel gingerly at his jaw, which Locke winced to notice was beginning to darken with bruise. "Although, if you've put a dent in my face, the women of the world may never forgive you."

That was the signal: We're done being serious. Back to dumb bullshit, starting now. Locke was relieved, mostly. But a part of him still sorta wanted... No. Forget it. He sighed. "Well, you've got until September to make yourself presentable again. I know that's an uphill battle. But try your best not to embarrass me this time."

Edgar looked startled, and then slowly lowered his hand from his face, and smiled. Fuck, Locke thought, feeling something constrict in his throat, I've got it bad. This dork was beaming at him, in genuine relief and pleasure, and Locke kinda wanted to live here now. Build a house in this moment and come back to it between adventures. "I look forward to it," Edgar said warmly, and Locke thought, How is he allowed to do that?

"You say that now," he said, and to his credit his voice only faltered a little, "but we're gonna do so many shots you'll pray for death."

Edgar laughed. "And that's your idea of an incentive? You think that will convince me to go anywhere with you?"

"Works, doesn't it?"

"Of course. But only because you and I are afflicted with complementary forms of stupidity. I'm just cautioning you against any broader application."

Who the hell else would I be asking, Locke thought, but didn't say. He couldn't put a name to what he wanted, and he wouldn't be able to handle it if he got it. But he could handle the wanting. He swallowed, and rode it out, and smiled back. This was okay. They'd be okay.

They fixed plans for the third week of September, and shook on it, and Edgar held on a little longer than was strictly proper and clasped Locke's forearm in his free hand, and Locke felt it down to the soles of his feet.

But it wasn't bad. He thought he could learn to take it for what it was. For the first time since Jidoor he started to relax.


	5. Chapter 5

Locke waited by the train platform and thought maybe he wouldn't show. Maybe he was secretly carrying a grudge. Maybe he'd send a note saying something had come up and he couldn't get away after all.

This was weird, right? This had to be weird. You might go somewhere with your revolutionary contact, or you might go somewhere with your friend, but you didn't go places with your friend the spy who was obviously and pathetically horny for you. Who wanted that kind of trouble?

A train pulled in. A train pulled away. He didn't see anyone familiar in the crush.

And then someone tapped his shoulder. "Boo."

Locke said, "If I turn around, and there's anything stuck to your face that shouldn't be, I'm gonna rip it off and make you eat it."

"Oh. In that case, give me two minutes." Locke whirled around. "Made you look," said Edgar, with a triumphant smile. And no mustache, thank fuck. Nothing untoward at all. He was just Edgar, dressed like a regular rich dumbass and not the rich dumbass in charge of the entire desert, which was probably the best disguise he could manage.

Locke wasn't sure if he'd ever been happier to see anyone in his life. And he was probably being just as obvious about it, and just as pathetic, as he'd feared. But — this was his friend. It didn't have to be anything dire. You could be that happy to see your friend.

If you were a total sap, anyway.

He laughed at himself and socked Edgar in the arm. "Right. Let's go cause some trouble."

* * *

Locke woke on the third morning with such a thundering hangover that for a few seconds he thought the couch he'd passed out on was breathing. He weighed his options: would it be worse to try looking around, or to lie here and live with the knowledge that furniture did that now? It eventually started to weird him out enough that he mustered the strength to turn his head, but then —

"Don't," said a hoarse voice, somewhere above him. "Do not."

"Okay," he said, and settled back.

The voice said, "All systems are balanced in a delicate equilibrium. Everything will be fine, as long as neither of us moves. But if I'm jostled in any way, I'm going to die." Long pause. Audible gulp. "And I promise you I will make it your problem."

Right. Okay. He remembered now. They'd hit four bars last night and _somebody_ hadn't been able to make it back to his suite unaided, so even though they'd booked separately this time, Locke had graciously come to his aid. Then sat down on the couch for a breather. And _some_ colossal idiot had forgotten that the endgame for this maneuver was supposed to be a bed, and had sat down next to him.

And here they still were, except that over the course of the night, gravity had done its usual thing.

"You will be prosecuted" — another pause, a careful breath — "at the bare minimum, for lèse-majesté. At most for my assassination. Don't speak. Blink twice if you understand."

"Morning, Edgar," Locke mumbled. It made sense now, the breathing. What he'd first taken for the world's worst-designed pillow was, actually, the King of Figaro's chest. He had some dim awareness that under normal circumstances this would be awkward, but right now his biggest concern was not letting his eyes crawl out of his skull.

"I said don't speak."

"I didn't do anything. You assassinated yourself." And he'd tried pretty hard to bring Locke down with him. Holy fuck, this guy drank.

"No, I didn't. I didn't die."

"Yet."

"You're right. Could still happen."

It didn't happen. They didn't die. It was warm here.

Locke's head had been pounded full of railroad spikes and his stomach wanted to go somewhere without the rest of him, but — he was warm. His skin was stretched on too tight, like a grape rotting on the vine, ready to burst any moment. But he was lying here feeling the slow rise and fall of someone else's breathing, and the steady thud of someone else's pulse where his jaw lay against someone else's chest. He was sick, and he hurt, and it was so fucking long since he'd had this. He should be ashamed of himself. He was. But the alternative was to feel this shitty in some other room all by himself. Why not make it worthwhile? Why not give himself something to really feel bad about?

He missed her. He couldn't stop missing her, and the way she'd tucked her hair behind her ear and the way she'd defend him to anyone else but never put up with any of his shit when they were alone, and the way she said his name. But he missed this, too: just lying down with another warm body. Maybe all hope of that closeness didn't have to be buried with her. Or maybe this was what was wrong with him, the fact that he could still want it with her gone.

The fact he could want more than this.

(He tried to remember. He might have said something compromising last night, something in the key of "You're my best friend and I love you, please don't go anywhere," and Edgar might've patted his cheek and said something condescending. Maybe, condescension aside, it had been the answer Locke wanted. But this would've been at the third bar. No one would ever know the details.)

He shouldn't stay here. But he couldn't make himself go. For one thing, he dreaded the prospect of even trying to move. But beyond that, he missed feeling like — even if he didn't deserve it — somebody gave a damn about him.

Fucking hell. His eyes were leaking. Well, he decided, with a sudden clarity of thought, I'll just be low-key about this and hope he doesn't notice. It'll blow over.

It didn't blow over as fast as he hoped. And then a hand closed softly over the back of his neck, which must mean he'd been found out. He couldn't imagine that was standard procedure. It was not something you did when you were awkwardly sharing a couch with somebody and you _didn't_ suspect him of maybe crying into your shirt a little.

Be cool, Locke told himself. Edgar's thumb grazed over the knobs of his spine. This made it harder to be cool, and in fact might kill him on the spot. He bit his lip. "Sorry," he said, in the coolest and most wryly detached way he could manage.

"Don't worry about it. After a night like that? This stuff happens."

"What, ever happen to you?"

"Well. No. Honestly, I was just trying to be nice." He kept running his thumb up and down over the exposed skin in slow, gentle sweeps. Locke, barely suppressing a shudder, told himself, Do not get a boner. At least have that much self-respect. He's gonna fucking know. "It's a documented phenomenon, though."

"Oh, great. It's documented. I feel so much better now."

"You should," said Edgar. "You're not alone."

Eventually Locke gave up trying to decide if there was a double meaning there, or some secret triple or quadruple level of meaning, or whatever the fuck headgames Edgar did for fun, and he gave up trying to work out whether he was betraying anyone by staying here, and he stayed here. Edgar had told him not to move, anyway. So he was allowed not to move. He shut his eyes. It was okay if he didn't think about the past, or the future, just for a bit. It was okay if he let the world look after itself for just one morning, while he lay here, where it was warm, and he wasn't alone.

At length Edgar took a deep breath, and slowly let it out, and said, "Perhaps... a less ambitious plan for this afternoon. Maybe if we kept things... _sedate._"

Locke snorted, and then regretted it, feeling like it had shaken loose some critical element in his skull. "Ya don't say." He blinked a few times. Eyeballs still intact, against all odds.

"It is with sincere and mortal fear that I ask you this," Edgar began, and then stopped, collecting himself. "But could you let me up?"

"Weren't you gonna die?"

"Yes. But. Bathroom."

"Oh. Okay. Well, be brave. If you do croak, I won't tell anyone how. I'll make up a really nice cover story."

"Sweet of you."

"'He died doing what he loved' — actually, any preference? Sex, machines, or sex with a machine?"

"Ah. I take it back."

* * *

On the fourth day — the last full day before Edgar left for home the afternoon of the fifth, but who was counting — Edgar went off to get a massage. Locke, who hadn't recovered from the previous morning on the couch, and worried it had opened some kinda sluice inside, such that the next time anybody touched him he might start bawling — or immediately jizz himself — didn't go along. Wasn't his thing anyway. He sat around in a coffee shop lazily thumbing through newspapers.

It was part of the job to know all this shit before it ever saw print, but sometimes reading it after the fact was good for a laugh. Oh, you'd think, is that how they're gonna spin it. And sometimes it helped for stringing together big-picture stuff.

This week in bizarre Gestahlian propaganda: a big splashy picture of the latest graduates from army officer training. They looked keen and serious and, to a one, suspiciously baby-faced. What was this supposed to say? "Meet the bright young things who will soon be crushing you beneath their heels!" or "Look how dedicated our citizens are!" or "Come try us, motherfuckers, we don't even spare our _own_ children!"

In the second before he threw the paper down in disgust, he noticed what they were standing in front of.

* * *

Edgar showed up for their lunch reservation in a state of such smug relaxation he no longer appeared to have bones. Glowing obnoxiously with health and good spirits, he began an elaborate process of decanting himself into a chair. Locke, across the small square table, kinda hated to ruin it for him — but Edgar caught on during the salad. "Something amiss?"

The restaurant was crowded with the tail end of the lunch rush; no one appeared to be paying the two of them much attention, but there were too many people around to keep track of. Locke flicked his glance around the room to indicate, y'know, lunch rush. "I'd like to pick your brain about something later. Could use an expert's opinion."

Edgar blinked. "Whatever for? You haven't met a girl since yesterday, have you? My, my." He shook his head sadly. "I'm always the last to know."

"No," said Locke, stung. "I meant the thing you're actually good at."

Edgar sniffed, still in high theater mode. "That's not called for. But if you feel discretion is a priority, I'll happily accompany you back to the inn once we're done here."

The lunch was good, but to Locke's mind, not worth the expense. Then again, he found it hard to imagine anything good enough for that price tag. If it wasn't fifty times better than a sausage and a potato, what business did it have costing fifty times as much? And nothing was fifty times better than a properly seasoned potato. Q.E.D, as Edgar would have said, except for his massive blind spot around all this rich-people bullshit.

Whatever. It was Edgar's money.

On the way back Locke said, "We'll use my room. It's boring, so it's less attractive to eavesdroppers. And yours has too many hiding places."

"Have we been made?" said Edgar. Brisk, alert, all business. It was not an Edgar you saw very often, even though, if Locke had to pick, he'd probably say this was the real one.

"Nah, I have no reason to think so. I just wanna be really sure nothing leaves the room. But if you wanna swing by yours first and grab some stuff, I'll meet you there."

"No need. Or rather, no use. I'm traveling without my usual toys this time."

"Huh. Really?"

"I brought nothing but clean clothes and dirty literature. If someone asked me to fix a window fan right now, I couldn't do it."

"What, you couldn't seduce hardware out of someone?"

Edgar looked thoughtful. "Bolts, maybe. Washers. Most of my target demographic doesn't have nuts, and those that do don't give them up lightly." Locke groaned. "Come on, I'm showing remarkable restraint. The things I could say about a drill press." They walked a few steps further before he said, "Wait. A hammer. See? You should be thanking me. And I didn't mention screws, either. Only the most highbrow of tool-related innuendo around here, my good sir." 

"Heh. 'Tool.'"

"Oh, grow up," said Edgar in mock disgust.

That brought them to the inn. In the middle of the day, most people were out and about — they passed only a maid doing the rounds, and a quick check under the doors suggested nobody was at home in either of the rooms abutting Locke's. So he bolted the door behind them and pulled the newspaper out of his inside jacket pocket, passing the picture to Edgar.

There were several seconds of intent silence. Then Edgar said, "Good eye."

"Think we've found your platform?" said Locke.

"Unfortunately."

A bulky machine stood behind the Gestahlian Empire's best and brightest, out of focus, halfway out of frame — but there as predicted, centered in the front plate, were four components in a ring, the muzzle of a terrible gun.

"I don't want to say this looks like a cavalry unit," said Edgar, faintly, "but it sort of looks like a cavalry unit." He pointed to a front-facing wedge shape at the machine's lower left. "I'm willing to bet that articulates like an ankle joint, so it can find stable footing on different terrain. But I can't speculate on how maneuverable they are in general." He dropped the paper onto the table and started pacing the room. "They'd need another power supply for locomotion, in addition to however many are wired up to the cannon. And depending on total mass" — he frowned, thinking back — "well, that barrel component was hardly lightweight, but it has to withstand a substantial energy discharge. It's possible they could have constructed the rest out of a lighter material. Unless — I've never seen one of their guns up close enough. Do they have much recoil? I would assume — but then, this is magic, and we already know that has only a passing relation to normal physics." He stopped pacing and looked at Locke expectantly.

"What?"

"The recoil," said Edgar, as if it were obvious that was the one word Locke should have picked up. Oh, sure. "You've spent some time nosing around Imperial installments. Have you seen one of their weapons fired?"

"Tell you what, I'll take notes next time. Then when they ship you my ashes in a canister, you can sift through 'em and try to decipher my final message. 'I'm sorry, I can't tell you if there's any muzzle flip, because all my bones are melting together. Aah! My bones!'"

Edgar rolled his eyes. "It was just an idle thought. If you're going to have your bones melted in the pursuit of knowledge, there are more important questions you could be answering."

"Man, you're all heart."

"That said, you'd better not ship me your mortal remains. They wouldn't go with my decorating theme."

"So redecorate."

"What, do you want top billing in a museum of the macabre? I never thought you harbored such ambitions. Then again, I can't be totally surprised, given —" He stopped. "Anyway, I'd better get to work on this."

He spent the next hour in near silence, sketching out proportions and estimates and obscure equations on scrap paper. He paused frequently to frown at the image, at first in open dismay, but gradually sliding into an attitude of dispassionate analysis. As if it really were a puzzle, and nothing else. For his own part Locke kept catching himself staring at the guy too much — who had time to read that much into every twitch of an eyebrow, calm the hell down — so he moved away, and sat down on the bed, and idly ran through knife tricks.

"Could I learn to do that?" Rachel had asked him, once.

He'd actually just nicked himself trying to pull off a triple spin, but he kept all reaction off his face and hoped she didn't notice the blood. "Maybe, but you gotta have pretty strong wrists. Why?"

"Do I need a reason? Maybe it's more fun if we're both delinquents."

Locke had snorted. "You could never hack it —"

"Sure I could. I can be a delinquent for three hours. Then I need to go help Mom with dinner." And she'd leaned in closer, her eyes big and dark. "Show me how."

He'd all but forgotten that afternoon. He twirled his knife around and did that same spin, and couldn't believe he'd fucked it up back then. It was so easy.

He wondered if he'd forget this afternoon, too.

He wondered — did this say anything about his type? Applicants must be responsible, but open to stupid mischief, and also must be absolute fucking dorks.

He wondered if they'd like each other. How had that question never occurred to him before? They were bound to meet someday, right? Once Rachel was alive again and the two halves of his life finally knitted back together. Like a broken bone, finally set.

"I wonder," said Edgar, breaking his reverie, "if you could weigh in on my shopping list."

So they debated, prioritized, rearranged — once almost argued over — this list. Information Edgar wanted, supply lines to be interrupted, an endless and improbable stream of miscellaneous gadgetry. We don't have the manpower for that kind of infiltration, Locke would tell him, so think again, or, Maybe if we'd started this six months ago, or, People are going to die. And the only answer Edgar had for any of it was: I know.

Sometime around six in the evening, mentally and morally exhausted, Locke said, "Some vacation this is, huh?"

"Well, what do you propose we do instead?" said Edgar. "Ignore the call of duty and furiously make out in the cloakroom?" Locke choked. Edgar smiled wryly. "Doesn't have to be the cloakroom. We've no doubt been noticed vanishing together into both my room _and_ yours; any third location should be enough to convince the staff we're total perverts. I'm open to suggestions."

Locke finally got control of his facial expression. "Man, the staff doesn't have time to waste noticing shit like that. This is a pretty high-volume inn. You're not as interesting to the common people as you think."

Then again, he was a common person, and Edgar was plenty interesting to him. He waited in dread to be called on it. Instead — with a calm smile and the closest approach Edgar Figaro made to sincerity — "Well, I'll leave that door open for a more opportune time. For now, I'm perfectly happy to sacrifice one evening's worth of tomfoolery for the greater good. Our entire friendship is predicated on subversive activities anyway. What better capstone for this little jaunt, hm?"

"I guess you're right."

"And besides. After today, I'm not sure how much more help I can be in matters mechanical."

He said it too casually. Locke narrowed his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

Edgar sighed. "The Empire has lately made it plain they're aware of my... little hobby." He added hastily, "They don't know I'm here, so there's no risk in my helping out today. I'm sure of that. If I thought I was being watched that closely, I wouldn't have come in the first place. It's just —" He pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's just hints, so far. These cutesy little gifts."

"That paperweight?"

"Do you know those gears don't even mesh? It's hideous. And I wish they'd stopped there." In mounting indignation, he said, "They sent me this kit — a child's toy — the most flimsy and insulting piece of —" He stopped. He took a steadying breath. He went on in a more controlled tone. "Either they don't know my capabilities, or they're giving me enough rope to hang myself, but regardless — I think my best defensive move is to keep playing the dilettante." A muscle twitched in his jaw. "It's fine," he said shortly. "It's in my citizens' best interest. I need to keep the castle's defenses a secret, which calls for a whole cascade of additional secrets —"

"So you need me to not blow your cover."

"I'd say to only use me in this capacity in case of an emergency, but" — he flashed a fleeting grin — "everything's always an emergency."

Locke chewed on his lip. "No — you have a point. You being in the Empire's good books is important for the cause, too. I can't ask you to risk that."

"Yeah, that's the thing, isn't it? Even if I can't do much now, I'd be even less helpful dead. Please believe that I've done the math."

"Edgar. Even if all you do is stay buddy-buddy with Gestahl from now until the day we attack, that's plenty."

"Thanks. That's kind of you to say."

"But if you really had to give up your inventions, I think I'd worry about you."

And something in Edgar's expression told Locke that, yeah, he'd be right to. But then it vanished, whatever it was, behind the standard ironic little smile. "Now, where were we?"

They were up late, and got a late start the next day; there was just enough time to stroll around the city for an hour or two people-watching, and then stop in at a cafe (ignoring the papers this time). All too soon Edgar was checking his pocket watch, and Locke said, "Want me to walk you to the station?"

"No, no." Edgar got up and grabbed his bag. "I can find my own way. Anyway, I don't hold with long goodbyes." He held out his hand. "Don't be a stranger. Otherwise I'll have to get inventive again."

"What, 'again?'" Locke shook the proffered hand. "When was the first time?"

Edgar laughed, and drained the dregs of his coffee, and without further fanfare went home. The cafe was a duller place on the instant.

Magitek Armor was fielded for the first time two months later.

* * *

Edgar had written, "All right, forget the risks. I would kill to take one of those apart." In the spring, he proved it.

"If I'm caught with this, I'll have to make a present of it to the emissary," he said. In a tone of vacant astonishment: "We just found it in the sand! Do you know anything about this? The operator must've gotten lost or something! Is this yours?" In his own voice again: "Or maybe I should mistake it for something from an earlier age? ...No. Any story I came up with would tax even _my_ ability to play the simpleton. I'll just have to not get caught."

"What do we do with the body?" said Locke. The soldier had stopped his armor and gotten out — maybe it had been overheating as he crossed the dunes — and had sat down in its shade, checking his compass. It wouldn't help. Locke had faked his orders, sending him out into the desert alone. He'd known he was singling the guy out for death, but it wasn't hard if he thought about Kohlingen. Maybe the fucker had been there. Maybe not. Maybe he'd heard a friend bragging about it, and bought the next round. Wasn't that as bad?

While trying to find his next heading, the soldier had sprouted three crossbow bolts from his chest. Edgar had stepped over the body and crossed to the machine, and started looking for a way up.

"Good question," he said now, from the control seat. "It won't decompose out here."

"Anybody finds this, they're gonna know there was foul play. Three gaping puncture wounds don't scream 'dehydration.'"

"There's water in blood. Surely the case could be made."

Locke crouched down next to the corpse and started sawing through the heavy crossbow shafts with his knife. He could at least get rid of the most obvious signs. He balanced precariously on the balls of his feet while he worked; kneeling might've been easier, but he was pretty sure the sand could cook him through his clothes. Sweat ran into his eyes. He made conversation. "The crossbow. An Edgar original?"

"Working on a new trigger mechanism. But not to worry. I brought more conventional weapons in case anything went wrong. Anyway — the hope is that I can move this thing down into a cave system I've heard of nearby. If so, we take the body with us and decide how to dispose of it from there. If not, we leave it here and make it look like bandits got him. Shot him and stripped the armor for parts."

"Shot him three times from the exact same angle," Locke noted. "Pretty organized bandits you got around here."

"Yes," said Edgar. "That was a mistake."

"And if they thought bandits got him on your turf, wouldn't they expect you to crack down?"

"No doubt. There are many reasons banditry is only my second choice." He did something with a series of levers and toggles. The Magitek Armor sputtered awake and then lurched upward, in slow stages, like a tired old dog rising off its haunches.

"Is it broken?" Locke said. "Or do you just suck at this?"

Edgar did something else with the controls. The machine lumbered forward, planting one ponderous foot and then the other, kicking up great plumes of yellow sand. Each movement was so glacial and deliberate, the product of so many incrementally moving pieces, that Locke felt like it'd be faster to walk. But then, when you looked at it from farther away, saw how long those strides really were...

And you couldn't walk around with a big fuck-off cannon bolted to your chest, either.

About two hundred feet away it clanked to an abrupt halt and Edgar scrambled down. Locke, still standing by the body, shouted over to him, "What gives?"

A hose worked loose under the thing's shoulder joint. A gout of steaming liquid blew out into the air and hung in red droplets, like — no. That was a dumb thought. Even the Empire didn't run machines on blood, and Edgar could probably tell you how badly that'd gum up the works. It was more of a fluorescent pink.

The armor slumped like a wounded thing. Edgar stood motionless, staring at it.

"You okay?" said Locke, approaching him. "It didn't burn ya, did it?"

"I'm fine," he said, but there was something in his voice. "I'm fine." But he looked — furious. "I'm surprised it made it this far. My best guess is — with temperature cycling, you know, the hoses expand and contract, and some kind of obstruction could've — but if they'd designed around it, or trained their troops better in how to maintain" — he bit off something scathing. "Right. We let it cool off and salvage what we can." Locke did not express his doubts that, under this baking sun, anything would cool off ever again. "Dammit. If all I'd wanted was _parts,_ I could've just..." He shook his head in disgust. "All this for nothing."

Locke had a hunch. "I mean, it kinda sucks, but it's not nothing. You got to mess with the controls and you get to cherry-pick what you're taking home to look at. That's gotta be worth something." Edgar didn't reply. Carefully, he put his suspicion into words. "Edgar. Have you killed anyone before?"

Edgar huffed a colorless laugh. "Such a naive question, coming from you. My decisions as king have always had the weight of life and death. This is no different in principle from anything I've already done."

"Sounds like a fancy way of saying 'no,' but go on."

Edgar looked at him. His eyes were hard. "This is what weapons are for. It's easy to think in abstractions in the workshop, and say, 'oh, this is just a proof of concept.' But when I'm no longer obliged to keep this sham of a peace —" He turned his face to the steaming armor unit, dark against the desert sky. "I'll be ready."

Locke watched him for a long moment, but he just stood there. Finally Locke sighed. "Okay. That's what the king says. What about my dumbass friend?"

"Not at home to visitors," said Edgar, looking briefly rueful. "Please understand." Back to business: "Nothing for it, anyway, but you might care to loot the corpse." Locke frowned at him, still catching up. "If we're claiming this was bandits. I'll look the other way, so go ahead and pick him clean. Strictly in the interest of verisimilitude, of course."

"Okay. Strictly in the interest of whatever the fuck you just said, do we wanna disguise the wounds at all?"

Edgar rolled his eyes and grumbled, "Fine, point taken, next time I'll just slit his throat."

He would do it, Locke had no doubt. He wouldn't flinch. But Locke wanted somehow to spare him from all the next times.


	6. Chapter 6

"I don't know what will happen, but I've put a few contingencies in place. Do you trust me?"

"The hell kind of question is that? After all this time?"

Edgar turned to him, grave. "And Terra? Will she follow your lead?"

"That's up to her. But I think so."

A long pause. Finally Edgar said, "I suppose that's the most anyone can ask."

Locke grabbed his arm. "Hey. I trust you with my life, and I trust you with hers. Otherwise I wouldn't be here." 

But the assurance didn't seem to help. Edgar still looked just as tense, and just as tired. "Better get some rest, then," he said. "I have a few last things to hammer out with the ministers, but then I'll do the same."

It was a gorgeous night in the desert; the air was clean and bracingly cold, the cloudless sky scattered with stars, the dunes stained silver by moonlight, fading into purple in the distance. Rachel would love this, he thought, and felt the familiar constriction in his chest. And felt it again, and worse, when he thought about how long it'd been. He was getting better, and sometimes that was what hurt most.

In the dark hours of morning he smelled smoke.

The door of his room was still cool enough to touch. Okay, small blessing. He slipped out into the hallway. A thin stream of smoke scraped along the ceiling, but there was no time to see where it came from. Any fire was either Terra's doing, or Kefka coming back for her (or her doing _because_ Kefka came back?) — however you sliced it, she was gonna need help.

A maid sprinted down the hallway past him. She'd slit huge rents up both sides of her long skirt for more freedom of movement. "Get everyone to safety!" she was shouting. "This is not a drill!"

"I'm working on it!" Locke called after her. Then he thought, If housekeeping is running that message, does that mean all the guards are tied up already? and took the stairs at double speed.

Terra was standing in the center of her room when he kicked the door in. Her eyes were huge — and yet, whatever that look was, it wasn't fear. "I did this," she said, in that toneless way she had. "Didn't I?" She had already belted on her sword. How long had she been awake?

"No, you didn't. You've done nothing wrong." He held out his hand. "C'mon. Let's get you out of here."

She put her hand in his. Time seemed to stop for an instant. Please, he told himself. Please don't fuck it up this time.

"Where can we go?" she said.

"I know some guys who can hide you." Although they wouldn't want to stop at hiding her. And he'd rather see her join up, too. But if she didn't want to, once she'd thought it over — No. Quit borrowing trouble. "We need to find Edgar."

The smoke thickened toward the center of the castle. With her free hand Terra pulled up a corner of her cape to cover her mouth, breathing through the gauzy material.

"You can start fires," he said, the words scratching in his throat. "Can you put them out?"

"I don't know."

"If we need to, can you try? I don't mean to scare you, but if the fire gets down there, there's a whole lotta stuff in the basement that will definitely explode."

"I'll try."

He opened the door out onto the ramparts.

Day was breaking over Figaro Castle, and the gatehouse was ablaze. The air shimmered. The heat beat against Locke's eyeballs, forcing him to squint. Every exit that wasn't gushing black smoke was barred by one of Kefka's stooges. And on the central stair, before the throne room —

There was Kefka. And there was the King of Figaro.

Edgar should've towered over that pint-sized creep, and yet — the image kept warping and shifting before Locke's eyes. Seen through the flames, Kefka's outline seemed to pulse, shrinking and expanding by turns, bulging one moment with extra appendages that collapsed the next, and Edgar was backing away.

Locke couldn't hear anything over the fire.

One of the soldiers had seen them; Terra freed her hand from his and drew her sword.

Edgar was up against the battlements on the western wall, his head bowed. Kefka strolled toward him.

C'mon, Locke thought, unable to look away, This would be a great time for one of those contingencies.

And then Edgar scrambled up onto a merlon, and stuck two fingers in his mouth and blew a piercing whistle — was that a skill kings were supposed to have? — and, seconds later, jumped off.

"Terra!" Locke called out, and ran to the edge of the causeway, peering out through the crenelations. Three chocobos were speeding their way, two of them riderless. Edgar, on the leading bird, stood up in the stirrups and shouted something he couldn't hear.

"I see them!" Terra said, and threw herself down. Does she even know how to ride, Locke wondered as he leapt off the wall, but he needn't have worried. She landed flawlessly and looked right at home. What else had the Empire trained her for? And how deep did that stamp go?

Edgar pulled up at the front steps for a quick word with a guard, and then took off again. Locke urged his mount after him. They wheeled north, and then east, to pass by the castle again at a greater distance. It was only when the earth started to shake that Locke understood why.

The great fans in the castle's turrets clunked and whirred into life, audible even at this distance. And the gigantic bass rumble of the engine itself — that, you felt in your teeth. For a few seconds the noise was all, and, fuck, the noise was plenty. Terrifying one's enemies out of their senses was a perfectly valid defensive stance. It sounded like something was coming after you, something big and unknowable —

He looked over at Terra (hard to tell if she was any more confused than usual) and then Edgar (supremely unworried) and thought, Oh, _fine,_ I guess it's just me.

The eastern wing of the castle began to move. Locke had noticed the deep grooves in the sides of the causeway his first time here, but written them off as some weird architectural quirk. Extra fancy shit for no reason. And he still didn't think, knowing Edgar, that he could be blamed for that. It was just — with the sun at this angle, he could see for the first time that there were metal tracks laid into the depression. And the tower at the far end was sliding along them, toward the center of the castle complex. Do they have to keep that oiled? he wondered, as if that was what mattered. Is that somebody's job?

The tower moved implacably inward, and the ramparts disappeared into it. The flames along the length of the causeway sputtered and popped out as the tower consumed them.

He was trying not to cuss so much in front of Terra, but he allowed himself to mouth the all-important question: _The fuck?_

As they passed, south and around the front again, the opposite tower swallowed up the western wing, and came to rest snugly against the central corridor. Without discussion, Edgar swung north again for another pass. The sun hung low in a salmon-colored sky, and a whisper of breeze blew over the dunes, still heated only unevenly by its morning light. That breeze carried tattered shreds of smoke skyward, the flames diminished now, looking almost forlorn. And from down here you couldn't see the Imperials at all. It was as if they no longer mattered.

At the highest point of the castle, above the throne room, the tiny figure of the Chancellor stood shaking his fist. And then went down the stairs and inside, pulling something home over the aperture behind him.

Back east, completing a circuit of the castle. Locke stared down into the trenches cut through the desert by the retraction of the two wings, and he wondered — had Edgar seen this from outside before? Or did he always have to supervise from within?

The sound of the fans cut out. Stuttered. Started again. The engine roared. The sand around the castle jumped and danced and flew up in flurries. Figaro Castle had begun its descent. The desert piled up along the gray walls like a living thing trying to fight its way in. It heaped itself against the gatehouse. It scrabbled at the crenels. It flowed over and onto the central walkway and rolled over the fire, which gave up with a final sad little _whoosh._ Brick by brick the walls vanished. Inch by inch their shadow on the sand flattened and collapsed. Only five or six feet above them now, Kefka could be seen stomping his feet and berating the soldiers, trying doors and finding them bolted —

Locke said, "If he smashes one of those down, won't the castle fill up with —"

Edgar broke for the sinking wall, as if there was anything he could do. But he was too far away. Kefka was gesturing grandly and something sizzled in the air around him. Terra shrank against her chocobo's neck.

And the sand kept pouring in, and knocked Kefka off his feet. And when he stood again there was no door left to break. The desert had reclaimed the walkway, was engulfing the parapets.

Edgar swerved again to rejoin Locke and Terra. He was gasping. "Sorry. I had this vivid fantasy of grabbing him by the scruff. Maybe dragging him three or four miles. Anyway. We need to move."

But he paused to look back, and Locke watched with him.

The towers sank, stately, under the surface. The sand rose and fell in an immense wave around the castle, radiating outward, and it kept going, and a smaller wave followed it, and another, for all the world like a choppy yellow sea — even after the last stone had vanished, and the engine's vibration grew further and further away.

Kefka pointed at them and screamed something to his underlings.

"Yep," said Locke. "We definitely need to move."

So they rode off with all speed.

"Bravo, Figaro!" Edgar shouted to nobody, and then sat back, at ease, as if fleeing for his life was the most relaxing thing he'd done in a month.

A little later he said, quieter, "You can't imagine how long I've wanted to do that." His voice — and this was Edgar, who on an ordinary day would sooner cut out his own spleen than be vulnerable to anybody — trembled with conviction. Locke looked over at him and felt a wave of affection and pride, and a weird urge to shove the guy against a wall and try to break his composure a little more.

It'd been a while since he'd been conscious of wanting him this badly. But, well, they were in the middle of the desert. There were no walls available right now. Maybe later, when they weren't actively on the run from Imperial soldiers, and Terra wasn't watching them. So much had already changed so fast. What was the harm in changing one more thing?

In the meantime, Locke said, "I dunno, ten years sound about right?" and Edgar laughed under his breath.

"Fine," he said, "I guess you can."

Behind them, the clank-_hiss_ clank-_hiss_ of Magitek armor grew steadily louder, and there was the telltale crackle of a laser cannon starting up.

"Can they hit us at this range?" said Edgar.

"You're asking me?" said Locke.

"Very well," Edgar said, almost cheerfully. He turned his chocobo around, dropped the reins, and pulled from the saddlebag a familiar, but still pretty nasty, crossbow.

The battle came to an abrupt end twenty seconds later, when Terra set the Imperials on fire. And then Edgar had a lot of questions.

* * *

They emerged from the cave, but only into a different kind of darkness. Edgar pointed out a smudge of yellow city lights on the horizon as South Figaro harbor, then turned to Terra. "But perhaps the lady would prefer to rest here, and make our way into town tomorrow?"

Hard to tell how much was his usual stupidity around girls, and how much he was trying to make up for all that shit he'd said about her not being human. She never gave him much of a reaction either way, and Locke approved of letting the idiot sweat it out for once.

"I think I would like to stop here," she said. "Thank you."

Edgar bowed — which was fucking ridiculous out here in the wilderness, in the dark, with everyone covered in grit and mysterious cave drippings — and pulled out flint and a tinderbox and started building a fire. So very pointedly not imposing on her special abilities. Locke told him, "You're weird."

"Are there many... people? In town?" said Terra.

Locke said, "Are you worried you'll be recognized?"

"Not exactly. But..."

"Tell ya what. I can do all the talking, if you want."

"I don't know that I'd take him up on that, Terra," said Edgar, stacking up kindling. "He has an offensive demeanor."

"Well," said Locke, pitching his voice to carry, "His Majesty here can't afford to be seen in these parts until we have a better read on the situation. So he's gonna have to keep a low profile in town. Either you or I will have to call the shots, while he stays very quiet and out of the way."

"Oh." Terra sounded concerned. "Will he be all right?"

Edgar made protesting noises. Locke turned to him with a grin. "Man, she's got you figured out already. How's that feel?"

Edgar spoke past him to Terra. "The more pertinent question is whether _Locke_ will be all right without my moderating influence."

Locke strolled over to Edgar and knelt down next to him, searching for more twigs for the fire. In a low voice he said, "Moderating influence, huh? So how much will you pay me not to tell her about the mustache?"

"You know what," said Edgar, "I think you two will do just fine."

Of course, if anybody at the base recognized Edgar, and figured out who they'd been dealing with, and decided to tell Terra about the fabled weirdo Mustache Guy, the butt of a half dozen increasingly convoluted in-jokes — Locke could hardly stop them. He'd had absolutely no hand in keeping that rumor alive. Honest. He'd be as shocked as anyone.

* * *

One of the chocobos' saddlebags had contained some light camping equipment, which Edgar had grabbed before turning the birds loose. Locke had wanted to ask where the hell they would go since their stable was underground now, but Edgar seemed totally unconcerned about this, so maybe that was a dumb question. They were well-trained birds, and Figaro drilled for everything. They must have some kind of plan. He told himself not to worry about it.

The more immediate problem was dinner. Locke had a few ancient strips of jerky in his bag, but that didn't make much of a meal. And Edgar and Terra were both equally useless for foraging.

"I could shoot a rabbit," Edgar said, optimistically.

"You couldn't _find_ a rabbit. Anyway, that crossbow would tear it up so bad there'd be nothing left to cook."

"Well, that's it for my idea. But I made this fire and everything. What have you done lately?"

"You're such an indoor kid," Locke muttered, getting up. "Fine, I'll go look for some fruit or something. At least get the tent up while I'm away."

"Do you need light?" said Terra.

"Probably not as much as you need to rest." He didn't know much about magic, but throwing fire around all day seemed like it'd take it out of you. "Don't worry, I'll be fine."

When he got back, pockets loaded down with early wild apples, the tent had been pitched and Terra was not in evidence. "She took your advice to heart," said Edgar.

"Fair enough. We can roast these, I think. They're too sour to eat raw."

Edgar watched him curiously over the fire. "Is this part of the treasure hunter's trade, too?"

Locke shrugged. "I travel a lot. Sometimes you gotta make your own way."

"Hm. In more ways than one." He stirred up the embers with a stick. "I think we've got a good spot over here."

Locke sat down beside him and started coring the apples with his pocketknife. "Hell of a day, huh?"

"Quite."

This morning it had been the castle on fire. Then the Magitek soldiers. Now, miles to the south, they were just... camping. Locke said, quietly, "You holding up okay?"

Edgar was silent a while. Locke thought, If he's just thinking up some stupid-ass deflection I'm gonna punch him in the neck. But at length he said, "I think so. I think..." Another long pause. "I don't see how I could have done otherwise. If Gestahl weren't a backbiting cur, and if our treaty was worth the paper it was printed on, Kefka would still have no legal standing to demand custody of Terra. I asserted Figaro's sovereignty. He retaliated. The case is ironclad. Even my worst detractors — even the most corrupt Imperial sympathizer — couldn't object. Surely."

He was staring hard in the direction of the tent where Terra lay. But he looked like he was seeing something else.

Locke elbowed him. "That's not exactly what I asked."

His expression changed, though in the firelight it was hard to see what replaced it. "I'm... happy," he said. "Is that callous? I think I'm relieved." Locke didn't know what answer he wanted, if any, so he said nothing. Eventually Edgar went on: "The wheels are finally in motion. We were already at war in all but name — but now we can admit it. My hands aren't tied anymore." He shook his head in wonderment. "I left good people in charge of the castle, prudent people. So they'll be safe for now, and meanwhile, I'm out here." He gestured to their surroundings. The cave, the trees, the stream running by. "And I can _do_ something!" Then he shot another glance toward the tent and reined himself in. "A — anyway. Yes. But thank you for your concern."

Locke wrapped each of the apples up in a green leaf and arranged them among the coals. "I guess it kind of is a win for you, huh? You've escaped your stuffy old kingdom —"

"I beg your pardon?" Edgar said coolly.

"Shut up, you know you wanted to." And he didn't deny it, although Locke gave him plenty of time to say something. "You got out with a clean conscience. You got to humiliate the Empire. We're gearing up to go kick said Empire in the teeth. You clearly brought a bunch of your weird gadgets with you, so you've got that, too. Is there anything left on your wishlist? Or just the water wheel?"

Edgar went very still. He looked at Locke sidelong. "The what, now?"

"Or however you put it," said Locke. "A machine shop by a river. Making tools for people."

Edgar made a choking sound in his throat. "But I never —"

Locke frowned. "What's wrong? Should I not have said that?"

"I never _told_ anyone." Edgar's voice came out raspy and mortified. "Not even — especially not..."

"You told me."

_"When?"_

"In the engine room. Couple years ago now. You were —" Oh, shit. Right. "You were pretty smashed. I guess you don't remember?" Edgar groaned and buried his face in his hands. "Okay," said Locke, awkwardly patting his shoulder, "it's okay, I'll forget all about it."

"You haven't told anyone?"

"Fuck no. How big of a bastard do you think I am?"

Edgar straightened, sighing. "All this time I thought I was doing such a great job faking. And you knew everything."

"Well," said Locke, either too lightly or not lightly enough, "can't win 'em all." And before he could stop himself: "I mean, all this time I thought I'd earned your confidence or someshit —"

And Edgar turned to him, and took hold of his face. "You have."

"Have I?" said Locke, swallowing a sudden catch in his breath. Edgar's hand was warm against his cheek. "'Cause it kinda sounds like you only ever told me the truth by accident." He put his hand against Edgar's wrist, and pushed it away. He didn't want to push it away. He wanted to lean into it forever.

Edgar looked out over the hillside. "I'm making this up as I go," he said. "Being king — there's no easy way to gauge one's performance. By definition, the only person who could show you how to do it is gone. The consequences of a bad decision are enormous, but you can never see all the variables, and — the position, how to put this, encourages a belief that you can control more than you really can."

He paused and took a breath. When he resumed, the speech seemed to cost him a great effort. "When you brought Terra to me. Morally, as a man, I couldn't do anything but help her. But as a king, I have to wonder. We're starting formal hostilities, over her. The castle's secret defenses have been exposed, on her account. After all this — if she doesn't join the Returners, how many lives have I thrown away for nothing?"

"It's her decision," said Locke. "She's been through enough already. You can't make her —"

"I know." Edgar held up a hand. "I know. It's her decision. And mine's already been made, so fretting about it isn't constructive." He sighed again, and slumped, and stared into the coals. "But please accept this confession as a token of my good faith: it still worries me. And I wish my father were here to tell me what's right."

Locke stared at him a long while. Finally he said, not without fondness, "Man, fuck you. Even when you're spilling your guts it's calculated."

Edgar shrugged, as if to say, What can I do? "You're my best friend, too. If I haven't always been clear about that, then I'm truly sorry."

"I bet Banon convinces her," said Locke, after a pause.

"You think?"

"He convinced me. And I was a way bigger jerk than she is."

"You know," said Edgar, "I'm glad to hear you admit that. I wasn't sure you had any conception of how unpleasant you were back then."

Locke smiled wryly, rolling his eyes. "Oh, yeah, I sucked."

"Well, I wouldn't go that far." 

"That's nice of you, but —"

"Not at all. It's my own dignity I'm thinking of. I always liked to believe I had taste."

Locke snorted. "Everyone knows you don't."

"Well, perhaps not, but as the primary beneficiary of said lack of taste, you could stand to be more gracious."

"Uh-huh. What do you want me to say, then?" He put on a stuffy accent. "'Oh, _thank_ Your most wise and benevolent Majesty for wasting your time on _me_.'"

"'Your servant,'" Edgar said absently. "For maximal groveling, you shouldn't be using the personal pronoun. You want something like, 'wasting your time on this, your unworthy servant.'"

"Fuck that," said Locke.

"Oh, I agree. It's unctuous. But I thought you might like to know, for the future. Suppose they ask you to suck up to some other king sometime, and that one has standards."

Locke thought about it, and laughed. "I'm lucky it was you, huh?"

Edgar grinned. "Think how your overtures would be received by our esteemed counterpart in Doma," he said.

He used the royal "we" so rarely that it took Locke a second to even get what he was going for. "Shit," Locke said finally, "or what about those douchebags in Jidoor?"

But then he was thinking about Jidoor, and being in Jidoor with Edgar, and the conversation stopped.

Edgar said, carefully casual, "Have you ever given any more thought to... well..."

"Too much." He wanted to inch away, but there was no way to do that discreetly. He wanted to move closer, but he didn't dare. He stayed put.

"Me, too," said Edgar. He took a breath. "Do you think it would go better the second time around? Or are you — no, that sounds wrong. It's not that I'm dissatisfied with our present situation. And I certainly don't intend any disrespect to... You have perfectly valid reasons to hesitate, and I wouldn't have you think that I —"

Locke rapped a knuckle against the nearer of Edgar's pauldrons. "Lose the armor," he said. Edgar shot him a quizzical look, but did so. It was a more involved process than Locke had counted on, and at one point he actually had to stand up to do something with the straps securing his breastplate. Which kinda killed the momentum, because it gave Locke time to wonder what the fuck he was doing.

But finally Edgar sat back down, and put the armor aside, and Locke leaned against him.

"I think we'll figure it out," he said. "And not just our weird bullshit, either. All of it."

Edgar, after a moment, wrapped his arm around Locke. "Do tell."

"Tomorrow, we go into town. We stock up to head into the mountains. We get to the base, and Terra and Banon hit it off. Meanwhile, Narshe finally figures out that if Gestahl was willing to attack Figaro, their asses are next. So Arvis gets them on our side too. Then we've got magic, we've got all the coal coming out of the mines, we have you, and we have me. If that's not enough to start putting shit to rights, then fuck me, I dunno what is."

Edgar rested his cheek against the top of Locke's head. "It's a nice thought. We rout the Empire... somehow or other. The details will sort themselves out. I get to pick the brains of whoever designed those armor units." A beat. He hastily added, "As part of their trial for crimes against humanity. We, uh, we liberate the southern continent. I'll fund anyone who wants to research the return of magic and its peacetime applications. You —" And he broke off, like he'd realized something.

Locke waited him out.

He said, in an odd, dry voice, "You'll see her again."

Locke shut his eyes. "Don't."

It was all he could say. He couldn't say, She'll think you're kind of annoying at first but then I'll tell her what we've been through and she'll love you as much as I do. She'll thank you for keeping me sane. We'll all be happy. I'll have a place for both of you, always.

He wanted it to be true, so badly that he couldn't stand to say it out loud. If he just kept it alive in his head, he never had to risk hearing how foolish and fragile his hopes were. If he just held them close — too close to get a good look at — and kept going, then he'd be okay. Like magic, somehow it'd all work out. It had to.

"She'd better take good care of you."

"Is that how you think people work?" said Locke. "Honestly?" He opened his eyes again, but didn't look at Edgar. Pretty sure Edgar wasn't looking at him, either. "Do you think you just..." He gestured. "Fix people up so they don't need you anymore and send 'em on their way?" Edgar said nothing. Locke said, "You're not getting rid of me that easy." And then he had to stop, because he was getting onto dangerous ground. But it was true. He had to believe it was.

"I'm sorry," said Edgar, at last. "I overstepped."

There were two questions Locke could've asked: Why do you always think you know what's best for everyone? And: In this future, who the hell takes care of _you?_

Instead he just said, "It's okay."

For a while they sat in silence.

When it got unbearable, Locke said, "One of your shitty pickup lines will actually work. But only once. Choose carefully."

That startled a laugh out of Edgar, briefly, before he cut himself off. "Hush. We'll wake Terra. But let's see — brought before a court of law for your crimes, you'll tell the judge, 'it's called treasure hunting.' For some reason this will be found a valid defense, and you'll get to keep all those diamonds."

"After years of hard work you'll blow everyone's minds with your new brainchild: the castle flies now."

"What," said Edgar, affronted, "it's not enough for you as it is? Do you not grasp the sophistication of —"

The tent flap twitched. Terra looked out. "Is something the matter?"

"Terra," said Locke, straightening, hand over heart, "I apologize on Edgar's behalf. He has no respect for other people's peace, and he'll never learn. Between us, I think he might be a vampire."

"Ignorance and superstition," said Edgar. "Though it may seem incredible, I have no otherworldly qualities at all. I came by my charm naturally."

Terra squinted at them in confusion.

Locke ventured, "We'll have more food soon, if you want to stay up a little longer."

"Okay," she said, and sat down across the fire. Locke had a moment of panic wondering what this must look like, them sitting so close, but she didn't seem to care. "Smells nice."

Edgar said, "What do you think, Locke? Is that the first time anyone's ever said that to you?"

"Shut up. We all stink like chocobo anyway."

"He doesn't mean you," Edgar told Terra. "Even he would never be so rude —"

"Shut _up_."

Terra said, slowly, "I'm sorry I haven't done more. I don't — I think I must have camped before, if I was a soldier. But I don't remember."

"Don't sweat it," said Locke.

"Should I keep watch?" she said. "I can do that, at least. I know how to fight."

"You certainly do," Edgar muttered, almost inaudible.

Locke drove an elbow into his ribs. "Terra, look. We're just here to get you safely out of the Empire's hands. You don't owe us anything."

"But you've been so kind to me," she said. Her eyes reflected the firelight. "Both of you."

Beside him Locke felt Edgar stiffen, as if with guilt. "Oh, nonsense."

"Look, we'll take turns, okay?" said Locke. "That's only fair. You wanna go first? You can come get me in two hours." If he took the middle watch, the others would get some unbroken sleep, and he was pretty sure they could both use it. "Edgar, give her your pocket watch or something."

Edgar gave Locke a covert squeeze around the shoulders before getting to his feet. He stepped around the fire to hand Terra his watch and said, "Of course, if you need anything before then, don't hesitate to ask."

"What do you think she's gonna need you for?" Locke asked. "She could kick either of our asses any day." He rolled one of the apples over with the stick. Under its wrapping the skin had gotten all crinkly. They'd be ready soon.

"Well, unlike you, I'm afraid I won't be able to teach her any new rude words. But I'm told I have my uses all the same." Terra cradled the watch in her hands like it was a precious thing, and didn't seem to be listening. He assured her, "I do mean it. Anything at all."

Then he looked downhill toward the harbor, and Terra turned to follow his gaze. 

"It's pretty from here," she said. "Kind of sparkly."

"Sure is," said Locke. Now he was staring, too, at the yellow harbor lights and the dim winking of their reflections in the bay. They'd be there by noon tomorrow. And when they did, all of today's events would become real. When they got into town, the resistance would be underway, even if no one else knew. They'd be fighting back.

He swallowed. He lowered his eyes, and focused on hooking the roasted apples out of the embers with the curved end of a stick. "Food's done," he said. "Don't burn yourselves." Edgar immediately picked one up, and immediately burned himself, and dropped it with a cry of alarm and shook out his singed fingers.

"Here," said Terra, taking hold of his elbow. She passed her hand over his and murmured a few words. There was a brief bluish glow, and then she released him.

He opened and closed his hand a few times. "Like it never even happened. Thank you, Terra. You're incredible."

Locke said, "If you pick it up and burn yourself again I swear I'll stab you."

Edgar sighed hugely. "With friends like these..." He searched the ground for the apple he'd dropped. "It's too dirty to offer to a lady now, but I suppose we shouldn't let it go to waste."

"Builds character," Locke offered, watching Edgar dust the thing off and give it a dubious look.

"In that case, you need it more than I do. Here. I insist."

"Wow. You always this generous with the fruits of other people's labor?" But he accepted it, testing its heat in his hand a moment before he took a bite. "Hey. That's not awful."

"You made it yourself and that's all you can say?" said Edgar. "I'm not sure I want one anymore."

Terra brushed past him. "I do. I'm sure they're great."

Locke unwrapped an apple and passed it to her. "More convenient with a spoon, but we don't have any. Just go for it. No one's judging if you make a mess." But she retreated some distance away from the fire and ate it standing up, staring down at the city again. Okay. If she wanted space, she could have it. He grabbed another apple, and stood up, and offered it to Edgar. "Here, you snotty bastard. See if this meets your standards."

He accepted it with a nod of thanks. In a low voice he said, "Think she'll be all right keeping watch by herself?"

"You've seen what she can do."

"I've seen other things, too." Like the way she went away inside her head sometimes. The way she didn't seem to totally understand why her sword arm did what it did. Locke had noticed it all, and hoped that getting her away to safety would help her sort her shit out. Edgar, though — would he be satisfied with that? He wanted something else. He wanted guarantees.

But he'd helped hide Terra even without them. See, Locke thought, you're not as cold-blooded as you think.

He put a hand on Edgar's shoulder. "Hey. We're doing the right thing. We've been waiting for our chance forever, right? Well, our chance came. And we're taking it. This is all going as planned."

Edgar smiled wryly. "You're right. This is all for the best. And if it's not, well. We can second-guess when we're dead." He took a bite of the apple. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "I'm glad it was you." He seemed about to say something else, but then thought better of it, and looked down at the apple. "Your cooking is not the reason. Good night, Terra," he called over his shoulder, and walked to the tent.

"Oh," said Terra. "Good night." Edgar ducked under the tent flap and vanished.

"Couple more apples over here if you get hungry," Locke told Terra.

"Are you going with him?"

"In a minute." He stood a while, watching the city flickering gold below them. The future, and all it promised, was only a few hours away.

He went in, and lay down next to Edgar, not quite touching him. Maybe someday they'd have this all sorted out. Someday they'd make sense of the wreckage left behind them, and get the world back on track. There was hard work to come, but — beyond it, maybe, something better. Something that worked the way it should.

Night deepened over their camp. Stars rotated slowly past. The planet wobbled slightly on its axis, like it always did, like a machine in need of tuning.


End file.
